


Sanctuary

by dcfg21



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, D/s relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Top!Harry, bottom!Draco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-03-01 20:48:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 55,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2787263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dcfg21/pseuds/dcfg21
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry's life is taking a turn for the worse. He's left the Aurors, he's being portrayed as a vicious and abusive lover by a vindictive ex-boyfriend, and is being second-guessed by his friends. He prides himself on control, but now he needs some time to regroup and figure out where his life should go from here. Leave it to a freak Apparition to throw that off course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So...I don't think I'll be updating on regular schedule. But, as the boys cooperate and the muse is good to me, we shall see. Stick with me, if you will, I hope it will be worth the wait.

"I wish you would rethink this, mate. I really do," Ron says, and the imploring look on his face makes Harry almost want to reconsider.

Almost.

Harry shakes his head with resignation. "No. I'm finished with the Aurors. They've made it clear where they stand, and I won't budge over a personal issue that has no bearing on how I do my job." He smears a finger across the condensation on his pint glass and sighs. "And even if they came back around, I don't think I can go back. It's about principle now."

"He's right, Ron," Hermione says, although her tone implies an unspoken 'you should have known' somewhere beneath the words. Her eyes are crinkled at the corners, always indicative of displeasure. She's crinkly at him more often than not these days, and frankly, Harry's stopped trying to figure out what he's done wrong. He thinks wrestling a greased Kneazle into a post box would give him less trouble.

Ron huffs into his Firewhiskey. "And what about Owen, eh? It's his bloody fault you're in this mess to begin with."

Right. And here it comes. Owen.

"This isn't about Owen," Hermione snaps before Harry has a chance to. She glares at him, and Harry knows full well she doesn't believe it. This is _all_ about Owen and their failed relationship, and how it looks for the Ministry to have an Auror who engages in less than respectable sexual practices and isn't the least bit bothered by it on their payroll. He's heard the whispers. He knows what people think even if they won't say it to his face.

It's not the first time his sexuality has been on trial, Merlin knows. When he first came out as gay, the resulting backlash took almost a year to die down. And then when Owen came forward to the Prophet with his tell-all article on quote, "the Dark Side of Our Saviour", all hell broke loose. No one cared that Owen Redfield was a consenting partner to their bedroom activities, merely that the Great Harry Potter was a dominating top with a demanding streak. Of course the Prophet and the scheming Rita Skeeter would pounce on the opportunity to make Owen out to be an abused lover rather than the self-serving, Galleon-grubbing jackass that he is.

What doesn't help matters is the softly patronizing shake of Hermione's head and Ron's pinched glare of disappointment.

Hypocrites.

Harry full well knows they like their handcuffs fuzzy and pink with a quick release; Harry likes his with a bite and a beg. As for Owen—Harry should have spotted his game a mile off. The kind of sub that likes the game only when it suits them. And the only things about their game that suited Owen were Harry's fame and the contents of his vaults. But he hit every almost every one of Harry's weak points. Tall, aristocratic, with a gorgeous body that pinked up beautifully under the sting of a riding crop, and an eager willingness to submit.

Too eager. That should have been his first clue. A true sub would have made Harry work for his submission, to prove himself worthy of such a gift. He snapped his fingers and Owen jumped. Too easy.

Harry sighs again. It's probably just as well. A lasting relationship seems to be permanently out of his reach.

"It doesn't really matter if it's about Owen or not," Harry says. "I've made my decision." He takes a long gulp from the glass, draining it and slamming it onto the table. "And apparently, the Ministry has made theirs. It's done. I'm not going back."

Ron looks flummoxed across the table, spluttering an incoherent protest. After a moment of Harry and his wife both glaring at him, he manages to find his words. "So what will you do now?"

Harry shrugs. He hasn't thought that far ahead, but thinking about it now, an idea springs to mind. "You remember last summer when I went to Spain?" Ron nods. "Well, I spent quite a bit of time there at some of the local galleries. I've painted a fair bit in my off time, and I really enjoyed it. Maybe that's what I'll do."

Ron's eyes go wider than he's ever seen. "Paint?" The question is fraught with incredulity. "You're going to chuck it all and paint?"

Harry slumps back in the booth. "Yeah, why not? I've got nothing else to do with my time. And I'm pretty good. Maybe I'll open a gallery, feature my own work as well as some local artists. You know Luna's got her hands in with her sculptures. They're not bad," he says, nodding to himself. "I think they'd sell."

"But Harry," Hermione cuts in, "you don't really need the money." He hears the unspoken 'so why would you waste your time?'.

"True," he concedes. "But by your logic, then I don't really need the paycheck from the Auror department either."

Her lips pinch together. She doesn't like to be called out. Never has.

Their silence and disapproval is palpable, and to be honest, he is far more than a little tired of it.

He grabs his coat. "I appreciate your concern, but honestly, it isn't necessary. I'll figure out something. I just need some space to do that."

"Harry," Ron says, and the deep undercurrent of warning rubs Harry the wrong way. "You're making a mistake."

Harry can feel the muscles in his face tense, and the unconscious clench of his teeth tell him he's close to saying something he'll regret. He takes a deep breath and slides out of the booth to stare them both down.

"Maybe it is a mistake. But it's mine to make, not yours."

"We just want what's best for you," Hermione pipes in.

"No," Harry replies, shaking his head. "You want me to do what _you_ think is best for me. You've never trusted me to make the right decision." He opens his mouth to say something else, but snaps it shut at the last moment. "I'll owl you in a week or so."

With that, he leaves the pub and heads out onto the street, and slips into his coat. He's only got one arm in before the sound of reporters barrels down on him. A crowd of them are at the end of block, running toward him, shouting.

" _Mr. Potter? Are the rumors true? Have you left the Aurors?"_

" _Does it have anything to do with Owen Redfield's tell-all to the Prophet?"_

" _Is there any truth to the allegations of you being an abusive lover?"_

" _Will you be taking legal action?"_

" _Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!"_

Harry turns, ready to stand his ground, but something unclenches in his chest, and he knows he's not ready to face them. Not now, possibly not ever.

Maybe Hermione was right, and he should have known, but it doesn't seem to make any sort of difference now. He wants some space to think. He wants to be left alone. He wants peace and quiet. He wants a haven to be himself. He wants—

" _SANCTUARY!"_

The cry rips out of him before he can stop it, and between one breath and the next, the pull of Apparition whisks him away.

00000

Harry hates Apparition as much as he hates Floo travel. A fact made plain as he crumples to the floor on what appears to be a very expensive rug. A rug he's never seen before. Certainly not one at Grimmauld.

Two audible gasps catch his attention, and Harry forces his gaze to focus on his surroundings.

Dead ahead, he sees a pair of lovely bare feet sticking out from beneath black trousers with a fraying hem. He's never used 'lovely' to describe feet before, but these warrant it. Long, slim, with perfectly formed toes, graceful, high arches, and the hint of shapely ankles. His eyes travel further upward to take in the point of a wand, pointed directly at his face. From the wand his gaze settles firmly on the flushed and startled face of Draco Malfoy.

Malfoy.

It feels as though the air is sucked from his lungs. Malfoy's mouth is open in a slight pant, and the collar of his white shirt is gaping at his collarbone, and Harry can see the flush from his cheeks has spread lower, pinking him up all over. The sight goes straight to Harry's groin.

Malfoy's got that wand trained on him, but it's not Malfoy's wand, Harry knows, because Harry's still got it in a box under his bed at Grimmauld. This is one of those throwaway Ministry affairs given to parolees, a weak stick that doesn't do shit except for basic household spells. But Malfoy's face is set, holding that useless piece of wood like he would AK someone with it if he could, his body set into a defensive stance, with one hand reaching back behind him as if to shield another body. His mother's.

Narcissa Malfoy is just as shocked as her son, eyes wide and surprised, body pressed close to Malfoy's.

It touches him, deep down, to see Malfoy standing there, all front and bravado, ready to defend his mother from wayward ex-Aurors who have suddenly lost the ability to not spontaneously Apparate. Malfoy, the ex-Death Eater, with his perfect feet, worn trousers, and no-good wand. Malfoy, looking delectably pink and flustered. Malfoy, who, in this moment, is the most gorgeous thing Harry thinks he's ever seen. It's absolutely ludicrous. And of course, because Malfoy is the git that he is, he has to ruin it by opening his spiteful mouth to snarl, "What the bloody fuck, Potter?'

He can't help it. Harry laughs. Braces his hand on the ridiculously expensive wool rug and laughs. He rises to his feet, shaking his head. He grins despite himself, and is quite satisfied by the glare he receives from Malfoy in turn.

"Malfoy," he says, drawing in a deep breath to stifle the laughter, "I honestly have no idea."


	2. Chapter 2

Naturally, it's Narcissa Malfoy that is the first among them to recover. She steps out from behind her son in a whisper of black silk, her skirts rustling as she moves into view.

"Mr. Potter," she says, casual as you please, her right hand slipping atop Malfoy's with a gentle nudge. Malfoy drops his arm a second later. "What an unexpected surprise." Her voice is crisp and breathless, with a hint of wariness around the edges. "I wasn't aware of a scheduled Auror visit, or have we reverted back to impromptu inspections? Although I must say, even on those visits we said our greetings at the front door."

Her words are so painstakingly polite, so devoid of scorn, yet somehow her calm smile makes him feel like a Crup who's shit on her favorite rug. His spine snaps straight, lest she chide him for slouching in her presence.

Harry gives her a formal bow, one he's worked hard to perfect in the past few years, along with the rest of his carriage. He's found that formality and confidence work wonders outside the bedroom as well. "My sincerest apologies for the intrusion, Mrs. Malfoy. I can assure you my presence has nothing to do with the Auror department or your terms with the Ministry." He straightens and offers her a deprecating smile. "I resigned my post two days ago. I am no longer an Auror."

"Then how the bloody fucking hell did you get through the wards, Potter?" Malfoy's voice is a barely controlled growl.

His mother's face scowls as she snaps at him, "Language, Draco."

Malfoy looks only slightly chastised as he shoots Harry a glare and huffs off to plop in a chair near the fireplace, bare feet stomping the whole way.

Mrs. Malfoy gestures to the over-stuffed sofa. "Please, do sit down."

Harry does as she asks without really thinking about why, because it's suddenly hit him again that he's in a sitting room at Malfoy Manor. With Narcissa and Draco Malfoy. And Malfoy's bare feet. Sitting is suddenly imperative.

He's barely sunk down into the soft cushions when a house-elf pops in, her long ears festooned with large, bright yellow bows, as if she was instructed to appear the moment a guest's arse hit the upholstery.

"Miss Cissa is needing tea for her guest?" The house-elf curtsies with a flair. The frothy ruffles on her equally yellow dress bob with her movement. Harry tamps down the urge to smile at the ridiculous sight she presents.

"Yes, Blinky, tea would be lovely. Thank you."

Harry catches Malfoy's eye over Blinky and her garish yellow ensemble as she pops back in to set up her tea cart, and he wants to grin, by Merlin, does he want to grin, because Malfoy's face is priceless. Blinky and her voluminous clothing are outlandish even by the strangest of house-elf standards, Harry knows that. And he knows Malfoy does, too. But the stubborn git can't be relaxed about it. Malfoy's mother has a fond expression on her face as Blinky does her due diligence, pouring tea and doling out finger sandwiches with the happiest of aplomb, all the while flipping those outrageous ruffles around. She swings by him so fast to place a tea cup in his hand that one of those massive bows nearly smacks him in the face. It's so utterly laughable, and yet Malfoy sits in his chair, lips pinched together, with his chin so high Harry wonders if it's going to permanently strain his neck, completely unwilling to crack the tiniest of smiles. Malfoy's whole posture screams 'so what if the house-elf is barmy – fuck off'. If Malfoy's testament to maintain control wasn't so admirable, Harry would burst out laughing on the spot.

"Now," Mrs. Malfoy says, after taking a delicate sip of her tea, "why don't you start at the beginning and tell us why exactly you're here, Mr. Potter."

Harry takes a tentative sip from his teacup, deciding how to explain the situation, especially since he's not really sure himself what happened. "I don't know," he says with a rueful, but respectful smile. After all, he did end up arse over tit on her sitting room rug. "Nothing like this has ever happened to me, but honestly, I can't be surprised by all the strange things that happen to me anymore."

"Yes," she replies, "you've led an interesting life so far, I'd say."

Malfoy tuts from his chair. "'Interesting' is a mild way of putting it, Mother."

Harry puts his teacup down and shrugs. "I've learned to take things in stride these days."

Mrs. Malfoy glances from her son, who suddenly finds the ceiling extremely interesting, back to Harry. "What were the exact circumstances before you Apparated?"

Harry nestles back into the sofa, spreading an arm across the back to get more comfortable. Malfoy's eyes track every smooth movement. "I'd just left the pub after meeting Ron and Hermione. I was outside, on the street, putting my jacket on, and a swath of reporters was there to hound me. That in itself isn't strange, but after my conversation with Ron and Hermione, I was in no mood to deal with them. I got frustrated, wished I could be someplace else, and *poof*," he gestures, "I ended up on your floor." Mrs. Malfoy shoots her gaze to the spot on the rug where he'd appeared, a small frown tugging at her lips. "If I've damaged your rug, I'll gladly pay for repairs. My apologies."

Her hand waves dismissively in the air. "I'm not concerned about the rug, Mr. Potter. What troubles me is how you ended up here with no clear destination in mind. You could have ended up anywhere."

"Well," he adds, "I did sort of have a destination. The meeting with my friends didn't go well, and I was in a rotten state of mind. Then the reporters started shouting from the end of the street, and I knew they would follow if I ran. I was thinking that I just needed some space, some time to deal with…certain difficulties in my life right now. I wanted some peace. I think I called 'sanctuary', and the next thing I know, I'm here."

Narcissa Malfoy looks absolutely gob smacked. It's an interesting expression on her regal face. One that quite doesn't belong. Her voice quavers as she speaks. "Sanct—you called for 'sanctuary' specifically?"

Harry nods. "Yes, I think so." He thinks back on it, and shakes his head more rapidly. "Yes, that's it, I'm sure. 'Sanctuary'."

"Well," she breathes into the air. "That certainly is telling."

Malfoy pops upright in his chair. "Telling? What's so telling about Potter here popping into places he doesn't belong? Merlin knows he's done enough of that for a lifetime. He probably pops round to places all the time. It's Monday? How about the Ministry fountains? Thursday? Isn't Wales horrible this time of year? Easter Sunday? Why don't I just come back from the dead like Jesus bloody Christ?"

The plates on the tea cart rattle with a surge of Harry's irritated magic as Malfoy's mother snaps, "Draco! That was uncalled for!"

Malfoy's face goes ashen at Harry's little display of untapped power, either that, or his mother's bite has more sting than he realizes.

Harry raises a hand, taking great care to look Malfoy in the eye. "It's alright. I know this is an awful surprise for you both. I'm probably the last person you ever expected to see again."

Malfoy swallows, but says nothing in kind.

Mrs. Malfoy frowns at Malfoy again, hard and cutting, before softening her features for Harry. "There isn't much I can think of that would cause this sort of thing to happen, other than two things."

"Which are?" Harry leans forward. Narcissa Malfoy is one smart witch, and any insight she might have might as well be coming from Hermione Granger-Weasley, he's fairly certain.

"One, your magic brought you here, recognizing your innate need without you even knowing what it is, or…two—"

"Two?"

The Malfoy matriarch's face is resolute. That makes Harry's heart skip a beat in his chest.

"Or two, Mr. Potter, the Manor itself brought you to us."


	3. Chapter 3

"With all due respect, Mrs. Malfoy, I don't see how that's possible." Harry's holding back a bark of incredulous laughter, because her suggestion is ludicrous.

She shifts in her seat, raising her chin slightly, and Harry knows he's probably offended her six ways from Sunday, but what she's implying seems so out of touch with reality that he can't even wrap his head around it.

"It _is_ possible, Mr. Potter," she goes on. "The Manor is quite old, and the very land on which it sits is imbued with the most ancient of magics. For it to have heard your call and responded in this manner is indeed strange, but _not_ impossible."

"But _why_ would it have brought him here?" It's the sheer offense in Malfoy's words that makes Harry's head turn his way. "What in the hell would the Manor want with Potter, of all people?"

His mother offers a delicate shrug and takes another sip of her tea. "Perhaps we have something to offer Mr. Potter, and perhaps he has something to offer the Manor in return. Who can say? It doesn't change the fact that he is here—" And this is where something turns over inside Harry's chest, spreading out an unexpected warmth that travels down his spine to his toes, "—and by his own admission, is in need." She sets the cup on the cart and folds her hands in her lap, linking her fingers together. "I think you should stay, Mr. Potter."

Out of all the things he expected to come out of Narcissa Malfoy's mouth, an invitation to stay certainly wasn't one of them.

"You want me to stay?" Harry asks, unable to believe what he's hearing.

"Yes," she says breezily. "The Manor is quiet; it's just Draco, the house-elves, and I. I keep myself busy, and Draco's return from Switzerland has kept him occupied with his investments. No one will bother you here. As a matter of fact, I think Malfoy Manor is the last place people will think to look for you. The grounds are extensive, lovely even in winter, and there are many, many rooms in which to lose yourself for a while. You'll have ample time to rest, meditate, read or study if you like." She smiles. "No outside intrusions, unless of course you wish your friends to visit. If you need peace and solitude in order to refocus on aspects of your life, you can find it here."

"I was thinking of painting." Harry is horrified as the words tumble out. He wants to say something else, something that doesn't sound completely mental, but he's stopped by Mrs. Malfoy's warm smile.

"How wonderful. We have a studio. I'm sure you'll find it more than adequate for your needs." Her eyes are entreating. "Please…stay."

There are at least a hundred different reasons he should say no. First and foremost is Malfoy. Their history is nothing short of volatile, and he knows it would probably please Malfoy to end if they ended up hexing each other at every turn. But second—is Malfoy. Barefoot and ruffled, with a sneer that seems to wax and wane like the tide, and it's so intriguing that Harry wants to know more. He wants to know about Switzerland, wants to know why he's wearing worn trousers and gets huffy over an enthusiastic house-elf. Wants to know if it's his magic's own doing or this old edifice of stalwart pureblood supremacy that's brought him here. Beyond that, there are so many other reasons to say no, but so many questions that he can have answered.

A niggling part of his brain urges him to turn and look at Malfoy, really look at him. He's still pointy, but he's grown into his features, and now the sharpness is a point of admiration. His eyes are guarded and Harry wonders what has put that caution there. Malfoy's always been open and honest with his hostility; this man is subdued. Whether he's letting it simmer, or the real fight's been taken out of him is anybody's guess. He's shown he's capable of short bursts of outrageous emotion, but it's easily quelled, and Harry finds that incredibly appealing. So when the answer scoots from the back of his throat to the tip of his tongue, he's looking directly at Malfoy to gauge his reaction.

"Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. I believe I will accept your gracious offer of hospitality."

Harry expects a violent protest, but when Malfoy's chin dips ever so softly down and to his right and his lashes lower in what Harry knows in his bones to be, fucking Merlin, _deference_ , of all things, his heart slams in his chest. Because that tiny gesture, so fleeting and imperceptible, makes Harry want like he hasn't wanted in months.

"I'll let Cook know to expect one more for meals for the time being. The house-elves are at your disposal if there are things you wish to retrieve from your flat."

Mrs. Malfoy stands, ever so graceful, and Harry rises along with her. She spares him a long glance, and Harry can't quite fathom what's going on in her eyes. She is warm and enigmatic, and Harry feels a distinct pull toward her. Her smile is light and a little wistful. Her hands tremble a touch before she clasps them together in front of her.

"I don't know why you're here, Mr. Potter, and I'm not sure it's something I need to understand. But for whatever reason, either the Manor or your own magic has brought you to us. You came in through our wards with no trouble at all, and I cannot discount that. This house sees you as family." Harry hears Malfoy suck in a breath, but he doesn't look over at him. "So, if it's sanctuary you seek, we will do our best to ensure you have it." This time, her smile is bright and wide, and more welcoming than he ever thought possible. She inclines her head regally and steps forward with a small curtsy. "We are honored to have you, Mr. Potter. May we provide you safe haven for as long as you need."

Her speech is formal, her gestures even more so, but there's something so comforting about her presence that sticks in his throat, leaving him unable to croak out anything more than, "Ha-Harry. Call me Harry."

"Then you must call me Narcissa." She reaches out a hand, and Harry takes it. It's small and delicate, fine-boned and elegant. But it's strong in his grasp, and she squeezes to add, "Or Cissa. I insist."

He really hopes he's not standing there staring at her like an idiot; he's prided himself on proper comportment in these situations. Merlin knows Hermione has drilled it into him since the end of the war, and there's a formal aspect to several of the clubs he's frequented that expect such a degree of etiquette. A formal and cultured dom is a highly-sought dom. And Harry is well-trained. "Very well, Cissa," he manages. "Your hospitality is appreciated."

Her eyes shine, dangerously close to something liquid, and before he knows it, her hand is now cradling his cheek. "Such a fine young man you've turned into, Harry. Your mother would be so proud." The way she says it, it's almost a whisper in the air, a sort of hushed declaration that hooks into his chest and _pulls_. He can't say anything at this point, it's all too surreal, and the day's events are catching up with him in a maelstrom of unexpected emotion. Suddenly, she's gathered him close, embracing him tightly with a whiff of jasmine and something herbaceous, and he finds himself hugging back equally as strong.

Narcissa pulls back and smoothes the line of his shirt with a steady hand. She turns and heads toward the door, stopping next to Malfoy before she leaves.

"Close your mouth, Draco. You'll catch flies."

Harry watches her glide from the room, silk skirts swishing as she goes, before turning his attention to Malfoy. His mouth is indeed hanging open on a slight gape, and his expression is one of complete bewilderment. His eyes settle on Harry as he blows out a soft breath.

"I have never seen my mother hug anyone but my father and myself," he says quietly, with a touch of awe. "I think I can safely say that I have seen everything in this life that there is to see." He sighs again. "Well done, Potter. I think Cook's about to get an earful to make sure everything is perfect for you."

Harry gives a little shake to focus on Malfoy's words as he sits back down. "Cook? You have a house-elf named Cook?"

Malfoy slings an ankle over his knee, letting his bare foot just hang out there between them. He's settled into a light slouch since his mother left the room, and the change in position has left the collar of his shirt to spread wide, revealing the hollow in his collarbone. Not to mention the looseness of his shoulders, a smattering of platinum fringe over one eye, and the splay of his hips at the slight scrunch of his spine. The pose is lazy, indolent, and altogether magnetic. If a herd of rampaging Thestrals entered the room, Harry knows his eyes would still be on Malfoy.

Malfoy takes in a deep breath and lets it out with an amused sigh. "Ah, yes, Cook. The house-elf formerly known as 'Tinky'. She insists we call her Cook."

Harry chuckles at the thought of a house-elf insisting on anything from Malfoy. "And how did this come about?"

Malfoy waves a hand in the air in a broad, sweeping gesture. "The Fall of the House of Malfoy, er, the Ministry version anyway. After the war, Father and I were sent to Azkaban, as I'm sure you remember, and Mother was on house arrest. The Ministry took custody of the Manor and freed all the house-elves. They, however, were outraged, and refused to leave my mother shut up all alone. Apparently, there was a big to-do about it, and the Ministry and the elves came to an agreement. They would be freed, but the Ministry would agree to pay their employment wages out of what little was left in our vaults. Since they didn't actually want to be paid, those sums went into a trust which only the Ministry had access to. Frankly, I'm surprised you didn't already know about it, I thought Granger was on one of those committees."

"She's on a lot of committees," Harry replies dryly.

"Anyway, they all demanded to wear whatever they want, which is why Blinky looks like she does. She claims yellow makes her, of all things, _happy_." Malfoy rolls his eyes at that, but now Harry can see the smile. Malfoy's _fond_ of the cheery little elf, he'd bet good Galleons on it. He also can't help but notice this is probably the longest conversation he's ever had with Malfoy. As a matter of fact, he thinks this is the most he's ever heard Malfoy speak in general.

"And Cook? Er…Tinky?"

Malfoy's smile goes a bit firmer. "Tinky decided she wanted to wear nothing but tutus and for us to call her 'Cook'. Because that's what she does, she says. She 'cooks'. I know, it's all a bit weird, but honestly, she's an outright menace if she doesn't get her way."

"Can she actually cook?"

Malfoy licks his lips and groans, and Harry thinks he might slide right off the sofa. "Merlin, yes. She's a terror, but the blasted wretch makes a chocolate trifle you'd ride to hell and back for. Just don't piss her off. Otherwise, every meal you're served for a fortnight will taste like Hippogriff piss and give you the shits."

Harry snickers, earning Malfoy's raised eyebrow. "I take it you learned that the hard way?"

The smile works its way across Malfoy's lips with some effort, but ultimately Malfoy can't hold it back. "Two weeks!" he exclaims. "I subsisted on stolen apples and pilfered Brie from my own fucking larder whilst trying to avoid shitting my mother's rugs with every step." He's laughing now, and the sound is infectious.

The pop of a house-elf catches both their attention. "Master Harry Potter's room is being ready now," Blinky says with a chirp. "Miss Cissa is wanting him in the room across from Master Dragon."

Harry's lips curve into a smile as he stands. "'Master Dragon'?"

Malfoy's lips purse. "A childhood nickname. One my mother is fond of. I swear," he sighs, coming over to lead Harry out the door. "It's like I'm six all over again."

Harry finds Malfoy's irritation amusing. It's given his cheeks some color and a resounding flash of life to his eyes. The effect is utterly charming. On a whim, he leans in, getting dangerously close to Malfoy's annoyed face. "Is it because you're all fire and bite?" he teases.

Malfoy's eyes go wide at the sudden proximity, but he recovers and shifts away to pronounce, "These days it's more because I'm all temper and hot air. I think post-war has dampened all my heat, I'm afraid."

Harry notes the subtle swallow of Malfoy's throat, mesmerized by the gesture. He can't help himself, he really can't, not with the sudden choppiness of Malfoy's breathing, or the bead of sweat that is glistening on his brow. "Yes," Harry murmurs, "but banked fires can burn slower and hotter than ones that flare and then flicker out. Maybe you haven't discovered the right kind of kindling."

Malfoy actually steps back this time, putting distance between them. His face shutters closed. "Well, Switzerland left me rather cold. I don't suppose England will be much better."

"Who knows, Malfoy? Maybe things are about to change."

Something passes over Malfoy's eyes, a flicker of emotion that Harry just can't read, not yet.

"Maybe for you, Potter. But not for me."

The defeat in Malfoy's gaze urges Harry to touch now, and he grabs at Malfoy's arm. "Don't give up on me yet. Stranger things have happened. I ended up here, didn't I?"

His fingers curl around Malfoy's forearm, and Malfoy hisses at the contact, his eyes jerking downward. Harry's fingers are securely wrapped around the Dark Mark, and Malfoy snatches his arm away, rolling down the cuff of his sleeve. He supposes his own gasp is involuntary, and knows that Malfoy sees it as disgust. The horrified embarrassment on his face says as much. Malfoy opens his mouth on something that Harry instinctively knows is going to be an apology, because he figures Malfoy's been apologizing for the damn tattoo for ages.

"Don't," Harry tells him quickly. "You don't have to cover it up. It doesn't bother me to look at it."

Malfoy holds the arm to his chest as if he's been burned, and replies with a vehement force that lacks anything resembling heat. "Maybe it bothers me for you to look at it."

Harry sees Malfoy's resolve begin to crumble, but he's a master, he is, and the wall around Malfoy's emotions is back up in a heartbeat. And that won't do. Because since the moment Harry dropped into Malfoy Manor and laid eyes on Malfoy and his bare feet, something in Harry has flared to life, and he'll be damned if he's going to let that feeling go. Not now, not when Malfoy has presented him with the most interesting puzzle he's ever wanted to solve. So he lets the heat he's been feeling in his gut pour out through his limbs, sluice through his blood, and settle to shimmer in his eyes. It's only fair to give Malfoy a warning. It's only fair to let Malfoy know that things are indeed about to change.

Harry feels his body shift to master control of his want, to project it outward, clearly, and with decisive intent. His voice drops low into a tone that he knows will brook no argument; it hasn't ever, not even with the most difficult of subs.

"You should get over that, then. Because you're going to find that as long as I'm here, I'm going to be looking at all of you. Mark and all. Inside and out. There isn't anything that you won't be able to hide from me." He smiles as Malfoy registers his words with restrained surprise, and possibly a bit of fear. It's an astonishing good look for the Slytherin. "Not for long, anyway."

He can calculate the time it takes for Malfoy's expression to wane back into a mask in mere seconds. It's a start. A small one, but a start all the same.

Malfoy stiffens and drops his arm. "Let me show you to your room, Potter."

Harry lets himself smile and offers Malfoy a curt bow of acknowledgement. "Lead the way."


	4. Chapter 4

Harry follows Malfoy down a maze of hallways and corridors, but his eyes can't be bothered to note the elegant surroundings of the Manor's interior chambers. His eyes are far too fixed on the way Malfoy's spine stands straight, and even more so on the curves of his arse are undulating beneath the fabric of his trousers.

It is a glorious sight to behold. His mouth goes a little dry, in a way it hasn't in very long. The feeling is so welcome he has to say something to fill the silence and maintain his grip on his composure.

"If I'd known it was going to be a two-day trek, I would have grabbed another one of those sandwiches for the trip."

Malfoy's stride doesn't break in the slightest. Harry likes that. Much more than he probably should. It means that he didn't startle Malfoy, that Malfoy's been aware of him the entire time. Awareness is a good thing because awareness precipitates anticipation.

"Relax, Potter, we're here," Malfoy says, stopping at the end of the hall, and Harry can hear the eye roll in the haughty drawl. "This is your room." He flips a hand at the door. "I'm across from you. You'll find everything you need inside. Call for a house-elf if not." Malfoy sighs heavily and turns. "I'll see you at dinner."

"Why so far?"

"What?" Malfoy turns back to face him with tired eyes.

"Your room? It's clear at the other end of the house. Why is that?"

Small lines crease the corners of Malfoy's grey eyes as he stiffens a bit. He draws in a breath before replying, "Mother's room is in the other wing. She's a light sleeper, and I—I keep odd hours." Long lashes flutter over those stormy gray depths. "She needs her rest. I don't like to disturb her."

It's there in the shadows from one blink to the next, and Harry can read the subtext. Malfoy's suffering from nightmares. Harry lets the sympathetic smile grace his lips.

"I've been known to keep odd hours myself. Maybe we'll run into each other in the wee hours of the morning?"

The blankness is back on Malfoy's face, but Harry thinks that there's possibly a hint of disbelief lurking underneath the mask, like he's not sure if Harry's mental or not.

"Doubtful."

"Okay, then. See you later." Harry opens the door to his room and steps inside, when Malfoy lets out a low, deep breath. It sounds like another sigh, but one of frustration instead of weariness.

"Why are you here, Potter?"

Malfoy's stiff in the hallway, hands clenched at his sides, the lines of his lips pinched so tight against his face they've lost all color.

"I thought we covered that. I don't know how I got here."

"No," Malfoy says, shaking his head with force. The tone of his voice is sharper, higher, and definitely defensive. It's skating very close to the edge of fear as he continues, "No. I mean why are you staying? Why would you want to?"

Harry straightens, but not too much, just enough to put a calming, yet confident vibe out between them that, if Harry's instincts are right, will instantly get a response from Malfoy. It's the sort of stance he's used in the past that never fails to soothe and pacify. It's a stance that radiates safety and control, one that tells the sub that Harry's got everything under control and there's no need to worry. It incites trust on a subconscious level, and it's a specialty of Harry's.

It works.

The tension bleeds out of Malfoy's shoulders and hands, and he lets a soft breath of relaxation.

Harry smiles at him, genuinely pleased at Malfoy's shift in demeanor. Even if Malfoy himself doesn't recognize it, Harry does. All the more reason to stay and unlock more of Malfoy's secrets.

"I _need_ something."

Malfoy swallows and licks his lips. "Wh-what do you need?"

"Well, I don't know. But apparently I'm going to find it here. And I'm not leaving until I do."

The finality of the statement has a second to linger in the air before Malfoy huffs in that old, familiar way, and rolls his eyes. "You're just going to hang out here and blunder about our lives until you," he makes sarcastic finger quotes in the air, " _find yourself_? Merlin save me from Gryffindors and their reckless tangents!"

Harry narrows his eyes in acute displeasure and glides forward right into Malfoy's personal space, hovering just on the other side of uncomfortable. His voice is low, this time it's dangerous and he knows it, but he doesn't care. "I'm long out of school, Malfoy. And I may have been a Gryffindor, but I can assure you that I am in complete control of myself. I no longer 'blunder about' and you can be certain that for every move I make, for every word that comes out of my mouth, there is a reason behind it. So I'm going to figure out how and why I got here, whether or not it pleases you. You can decide to be nice, or you can decide to be a shit. But I'm telling you that if you expect me to revert to our old, petty ways, it's not going to happen. _I_ have more self-control that that." Harry's lips curve into a challenging smirk. "Do you?"

Malfoy's response is to gape for exactly three seconds before he turns his back and slams the door to his room.

Well, Harry muses, that went better than expected.


	5. Chapter 5

The tension Harry expects at dinner is unsurprisingly present. However, it seems to be centered at Malfoy's end of the table. In fact, Harry's enjoying a perfectly lovely conversation with Narcissa at the other end about her Trilling Roses, while Draco's poking around at his trifle like it's insulted him personally.

"It's been quite troubling," Narcissa says. "They've bloomed perfectly like last year, but they just won't trill." She shakes her head with a soft sigh. "Perhaps I'm losing my touch."

"Nonsense," Harry chides her with a smile. "A witch as skilled as yourself? I don't think so, Cissa. Why don't you let me get Neville Longbottom out here and take a look?"

From the other end of the table, Malfoy shoots up straight in his chair. "Longbottom? Are you serious, Potter?"

Harry ignores him in favor of quelling the look of surprise on Narcissa's face. "Of course I'm sure. I wouldn't have suggested otherwise. Nev's the best when it comes to plants. He's the Herbology professor at Hogwarts now."

Narcissa's straighter in her chair than Malfoy and a worried pinch steals across her lips. "I don't know, Harry. I would hate for him to visit and feel uncomfortable. The Manor has left its mark on so many in one way or another. I don't wish to reopen old wounds."

His hand reaches for hers on instinct, cradling it gently. "Neville Longbottom is a good man, and not the kind to let the past intrude on his present. He's made his peace with things. But if you're inclined to keep to yourself, I'll respect that." Harry's lips curve into a sly grin as he adds, "And I know for a fact that he'd love to get out here and see your famous gardens firsthand. From what I hear, they're legendary. Much like their mistress."

A faint blush steals across Narcissa's cheeks and she swats playfully at his hand. "Such shameless flattery." Her eyes twinkle as she directs her smile to her son. "Watch yourself with this one, Draco. He's a terrible flirt."

It's like someone's banging a gong right in Harry's brain. Narcissa Malfoy has all but outed her son over pudding. Even better, she sounds _encouraging_.

Malfoy, however, is as droll as ever, rolling his eyes with a put-upon sigh.

"I'll be sure to guard my virtue, Mother."

Narcissa lets out a hoot of laughter, and the unexpected sound is warm the air. "Darling, it's not your virtue I'm concerned with. If you're not careful, Harry here will steal your heart."

Harry's body goes flush at Narcissa's banter, but he keeps quiet and watches Malfoy instead with a pointed stare. Malfoy's gone all pink around the edges and stares daggers at his mother.

"It's all right," Harry says smoothly, hoping to deflect some of Malfoy's discomfort. "I'll give him fair warning before I take anything." He shrugs with amused self-deprecation. "Can't help it," he grins. "Gryffindor."

Narcissa chuckles and rises from her chair. Harry and Malfoy follow. "If you can get Mr. Longbottom here to look at my roses, I would certainly welcome his insight."

Harry nods. "I'll firecall him tomorrow."

"I'm going to retire for the evening. Perhaps Draco can show you the studio this evening?"

He shoots a glance at Malfoy, who inclines his head. "Of course, Mother. Rest well. We'll see you at breakfast."

"Wonderful." She glides forward to Harry and presses her hands to his forearms, sliding them slowly upward over his shirtsleeves. Misinterpreted, it would be a lover's caress, but her under hands all Harry feels is gentle strength and reassurance. It's a mother's touch through and through, as old and eternal as time itself. Her hands rest at his shoulders and she assesses him with that same motherly gaze, like she's taking stock of his health. She pulls him softly toward her and Harry goes without hesitation. He eases into her embrace and winds his arms around her slight frame.

"Thank you, Harry." The words are whispered into his neck with sincere gratitude and a heavy layer of fondness.

What gets to him the most is the slow and poignant nature of Narcissa's simple hug. It's not rushed, but savored, and carries more meaning that any hug ever given by Molly Weasley. Not that Harry doubts Molly's love, but her hugs are frantic and fierce, altogether short because she's moved on to another body to accost. There's a time limit, a rationing if you will, because Molly has so many to mother, so many to love. Narcissa just has Malfoy, but she makes Harry feel like she has him too.

She pulls back and presses a warm kiss to his cheek, drifting out of his hold with a swish of her skirts before she heads for Malfoy. Harry's breath stalls in his chest as he watches Narcissa enfold Malfoy with the same slow movements. He expected it to be a sort of lip service, what she said earlier about the wards recognizing him as family. But now, seeing her with Draco, it hits home. She's treating him exactly the same way she treats Malfoy. Not as a guest, not even as a friend, but as a son.

In that moment, Harry feels something slide into place within his heart. He can almost hear the click in his brain. Magic tingles on the surface of his skin, the same sort of feeling he got when he Apparated in. It's warm and settling, and he feels a bit heavier, like his feet are rooted to the floor. It's the Manor.

But Malfoy and his mother give no notice that the house is exerting itself. It's as if the feeling is reserved for Harry, and Harry alone. He's never felt anything like it, but he knows one thing.

He wants to feel it again.


	6. Chapter 6

Malfoy throws open the heavy double doors with more force than is strictly necessary, stomping into the room without a word, leaving Harry to follow. It's either that or stand out in the hallway, and he has to bite back a chuckle at the blond's petulance.

Harry can only imagine what Malfoy's tweaked about now, but given the past few hours of his company, and knowing him like he does, Harry thinks there's really no telling.

"Behold, Potter," Malfoy says, the dry spite echoing out into the vastness of the cavernous room. "The studio."

Studio is an understatement, as are most things when it comes to Malfoy. The ballroom-sized space is open and airy, with bright white walls that extend upwards to what has to be a twenty or twenty-five foot ceiling. The wall directly opposite the door has to be some thirty feet across, and floor to ceiling windows are reflecting the outside winter landscape. It's gone half-nine in the evening, but those windows are letting in early morning sunshine.

"Charmed." Malfoy speaks again in the same irritated tone. "The windows. You change the lighting to suit your needs." He points to a side door in the far corner. "Closet's through there. Easels, supplies, whatnot. You'll have to go through it, as I have no idea what's in there. So don't ask."

Malfoy's hand drops roughly to his side, and those lips purse harder than he's ever seen. Malfoy's tightly wound, like a spring that's ready to pop.

Harry ignores him and starts a mental countdown in his head as he strolls lazily around the room, because it's only a matter of time before Malfoy's temper gets the best of him. Despite Malfoy's earlier urgings of his quelled fire, Harry knows it's bound to make an appearance sooner or later. They will never fail to push each other's buttons.

But Harry recognizes that his presence in the Manor alone is enough make him the pusher, not the pushee. Frankly, Harry doesn't have buttons anymore, not since he's swapped out the boy he used to be for the man he's rewired himself to become.

Malfoy's gaze is piercing on his back as Harry makes his lap around the room, and he picks up on the silent seething that's being directed his way. He knows Malfoy has changed, can see that in so many other ways, but right now the clock is ticking.

And…three…two…one.

" _What in the bleeding hell were you thinking inviting Longbottom here?"_

It's a veritable screech, highly undignified, and terribly amusing.

Harry opens his mouth but shuts it a second later because Malfoy has suddenly _lost the plot_ , shouting and gesturing like a herd of rabid Thestrals.

" _This is not a halfway house for Gryffindors! You can't just show up here and throw open our doors to the unwashed masses!"_

Malfoy's voice hits a strangled high.

" _For fucking roses!"_

He's pacing back and forth now, heavy stomps on expensive inlaid flooring.

" _Who's next? The rest of your idiotic cohorts? And my mother! Do you expect her to serve tea to your cronies? Will they even break bread with Death Eaters?"_

Harry stares at him as he goes on. Malfoy's worked himself into a proper strop, and he can't string together coherent sentences any longer. The words 'fucking Longbottom', 'Golden Trio', and 'infestation' spout from his lips with all the force of expletives.

Malfoy's eyes are wild and frantic and his body is strung taut, even as his limbs flail about in protest. His shouting is reaching a pinnacle, and Harry hears incandescent rage and indignant affront in the bellows. But he also hears something else, something buried deep among the shrillness. Beneath the high-pitched bluster, Harry hears the undercurrent of an emotion that he knows intimately.

Fear.

The tantrum is clearly a coping mechanism; one Harry indulges for a few seconds more, until Malfoy tips over the edge from childish to desperate.

He's violently barreling around the room, never getting close enough to Harry to be a threat, but the expression on his face is downright murderous. Malfoy's brow is furrowed into deep creases, his skin is blotchy and red, and beads of sweat have dotted across his hairline. He's sucking in air as quickly as he's letting it out in his tirade. There's a vein that's popped out at his temple and Harry swears to Merlin he can take Malfoy's blood pressure just by looking at it. He's shaky and flustered, and so, so angry.

Harry slowly puts his hands in his pockets and takes a deep breath. It's amazing how quickly Malfoy has escalated into behavior that Harry's fairly certain wouldn't be happening if he wasn't here.

This isn't good. It's not even in the same post code as good. Malfoy's a man who's always maintained control in the face of others, or at least tried to. The perfect pureblood prince. Stoic, masked, and always in control. But he's losing his grasp on it here, and he's doing it in a way that isn't remotely productive.

Harry can understand the need to let go, to cede control of his emotions, even if he doesn't experience it himself. But Malfoy's a live wire now, sparking and burning across the room. His emotions are running away with him and there's nothing he can do but hang on. He's lost control and he's scared, but he can't stop. He's got no ground, no anchor, and he's spiraling higher and higher toward an inevitable crash. Malfoy's anxiety is pulsing out of him in waves so thick Harry thinks he can reach out and pluck it from the air like a Snitch.

Harry's breath stutters when he realizes he hasn't said a single word to Malfoy since entering the room. Malfoy has worked himself into this state all on his own. And that is unacceptable.

"Enough." He doesn't need to shout over Malfoy, because the moment his mouth opened, Malfoy's eyes latched onto his face.

Malfoy stalks over and stands an arm's length from him. _"Just what the bloody fuck, Potter?"_

The question is a pleading whine, and Malfoy's face winces at his own words. He's floundering still; Harry can see it in swirling in his eyes. He's got nothing to cling to. So Harry makes the decision for him. He'll be the anchor. It's up to Malfoy to reach for it. Manipulation has never been Harry's style, because manipulation is fraught with deceit. Harry will steer him back, but Malfoy's got to choose the path.

"Harry. Call me Harry."

"What?" Malfoy snorts and shakes his head in confusion.

"Say it."

Malfoy steps back and rolls his eyes. "You're off your nut."

Malfoy's a few good inches taller, but it only takes a fraction of distance for Harry to lean forward and radiate command with his presence. Malfoy's head immediately dips to his gaze.

"Say it."

Malfoy's body stiffens and his mouth works open and shut before he croaks out. "Ha—Harry."

And there it is.

"Good." Harry lets the praise rumble out of his mouth like a purr. "Thank you." He breathes deeply and rocks back on his heels. "That wasn't so difficult, was it, Malfoy?"

The daggers are back in Malfoy's gray stare. "You're infuriating. You demand familiarity and in the next breath you're sneering 'Malfoy' like we're first years."

Harry cocks his head. "I didn't sneer. And I don't take liberties where none have been offered. It's _rude_." He waits while Malfoy stares at him, bewildered.

It takes a second for Malfoy to get the hint, but he does, huffing, "Fine. Draco."

Harry raises an eyebrow and waits again.

The stare is discomforting after a second or two, Harry knows, because he's perfected it, and finally Malfoy concedes.

"Draco. Call me Draco." Malfoy swallows audibly and adds, "Please."

Harry smiles full of genuine pleasure. "Of course. Thank you."

"That's it? Years of animosity to get to first names and all I had to do was ask?" He sounds sanctimoniously perplexed.

Harry closes the distance between them until the scent of citrus and sweat bleeds into his nostrils. He leans over, putting his mouth precariously close to Draco's ear. "All you ever have to do is ask. Remember that, _Draco_."

Draco looks suitably fuddled when Harry pulls back. The sight is pleasantly arousing. He turns and heads for the doors.

"Wh—where are you going?"

"To bed," Harry answers, not looking back. "Blinky?" he calls, and the house-elf pops in.

"How is Blinky to be helping Master Harry Potter?"

Harry smiles down at her. "It's been a lovely evening, Blinky, and I fancy a stroll back to my room. Care to join me?" He stretches out a hand and offers it.

"Anything for Master Harry Potter, sir."

"Just Harry."

Blinky giggles and slips her hand into his. "Anything for Master Harry."

They walk out of the room and Harry turns back to shut the doors, his eyes finding the incredulous Slytherin. "Goodnight, Draco. Sleep well."

00000

The doors shut behind Potter and Blinky, and Draco lets out a strangled gasp. The hole that's been gnawing away in his gut since Potter dropped in has finally eaten through to his spine, leaving him empty with a roiling ache. He's calmer now than he was, and the knowledge that Po—no, _Harry_ is the reason tempers that calm with an unsettling clarity.

There's something rattling around the cavern of his belly, and when it seeps out into his bones to take root, recognition dawns. It's the hollow echo of the house-elf's words.

_Anything for Master Harry._

Sweet Salazar Slytherin, he's fucked.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry slides into wakefulness with a half-smile on his face and a comfortable lethargy in his bones. He stretches his arms over his head, relishing the tender pull of muscles and tendons as they unfurl, burning off the heavy fog of sleep. His eyes flutter open to take in the draped fabrics of the overhead canopy. He has to admit, this sort of luxury is something he can get used to. There's no alarm, nothing pressing, nothing that requires his immediate attention. No Ministry to rush off to, no Ron or Hermione calling from the Floo, demanding to know why he's still in bed at—he casts a quick Tempus—ten a.m. on a Thursday.

Suddenly, the canopy makes sense and he remembers Narcissa and Draco. He's late for breakfast.

A twinge of guilt touches over his nerves, but he doesn't really think Narcissa will take offense. Draco, on the other hand, is a different story entirely. He doesn't dwell on why that particular thought is both amusing and unsettling. Harry simply pushes back the covers and decides to head for the shower. His feet hit the floor but he stops, gripped with the same grounding feeling from last night.

For some reason his eyes glance back to the enormous bed.

The looming four-poster with its wide and downy-soft mattress is still inviting even though it's no longer fastidiously made. A pleasant hum vibrates through Harry as he stares at the bed sheets. They're a rich blue, swirling and inky as twilight, and the hum of magic strengthens as he imagines them outlining the shape of another body. Pale, creamy limbs contrast with the dark, buttery silk as they drape over the curves and angles of a lithe male form.

It's Draco.

Deep in slumber, the expanse of his chest rises and falls with soft, slow breaths, and his plush, pink lips are slightly parted. He is peaceful, quiet in languorous sleep, and so beautiful that Harry's breath evaporates. Unfettered by the slick gels from their Hogwarts days, his platinum hair looks soft as corn silk as it spreads out across the pillow. Harry's fingers curl by his side with the urge to _touch_ and _keep touching_. His body is lax and half-twisted among the sheets, and there's enough skin peeking out to make Harry's pupils dilate, widening to soak in as much of the sight as possible. He sleeps with the heavy repose of the sated and utterly satisfied, spent for all the best reasons, like Harry's completely fucked him out.

Harry's cock jumps at the thought.

Harry imagines those long lashes fluttering so sweetly, slowly opening to pin him down with those piercing gray eyes. He imagines a hand, long-fingered and adept, one that knows how to touch, to please, reaching out in question.

He lurches toward the bed when the hum of magic snaps in his blood, making him brace a hand on the mattress to keep from falling. He looks back to the sheets.

Empty.

Harry snorts out a breath and huffs out a short laugh as he shoots his eyes to the ceiling. It seems the house isn't through with him yet.

"If you're trying for subtle," Harry says, addressing the room at large, "you're failing miserably."

The frisson of magic he feels as a result is tinged with smug amusement, but underneath there's a heavy portent of divination. As a man who is intimately acquainted with the trappings of prophecy, it's something he knows he can't ignore. But he's done with manipulation on all fronts, no matter the source, no matter the intent.

He adds with a frown, "Push all you like, but I won't go where I'm not wanted." Harry waits to see if the Manor is stubborn enough to respond, but the room goes quiet. Whether that's in offense or tacit agreement, he doesn't know, and really doesn't care. He casts one more look at the empty bed before turning to the bathroom. The one thing he does know is that the image of Draco in his bed is more than pleasing. It feels right.

His feet are lighter as he heads to the bathroom.

OOOOO

The ensuite is appointed in the same grand vein as the rest of the chamber: spacious, elegant, and luxuriously inviting. Harry turns the shower on and chucks off his pajamas as steam starts billowing out. He steps in, assaulted on all sides from the six showerheads. Harry groans and braces his hands on the tile at the glorious feel of the hot water. The tile must be charmed because it's warm beneath his hands. No bracing cold. He turns and presses his back to it, throwing his head back in pleasure. The pounding spray is heavenly, and the warm tile against his back feels so good he wants to sink into it.

The thought of pressing Draco against these same tiles starts a slow burn in his blood. He imagines Draco, long-limbed and gorgeous, begging for Harry's touch. Harry can see them tangled together, skin on skin, mouths against flesh, panting and desperate as Harry fucks him into the wall. Draco moans and writhes beneath him, clinging to Harry with fingers that bite, like he's the only thing Draco needs in this world.

There's no magical tweak; this time the fantasy is all Harry. He smiles as he palms his half-hard cock. Harry puts some serious consideration into having one off right now. Merlin knows he's good for it. Draco, wet and wanton, makes for excellent wanking material. Harry's no slave to his desires. He knows if he waits, all the better. He finishes his shower and steps out, wrapping a fluffy towel around his waist. He wraps up his ablutions with the toothbrush and paste in the cabinet and a drying charm on his hair.

Clothes. He needs clothes. Harry considers reaching for his old ones from yesterday, but given Narcissa's thoroughness with the products in the bathroom, he goes to the closet and isn't disappointed. It's filled with clothes, both Wizarding and muggle. He grabs a pair of boxers and socks before snagging a pair of neatly folded jeans and a soft cotton t-shirt from a hanger. He laughs out loud as he slips the on the purposely-faded shirt, emblazoned with a Muggle band logo. He wonders if Narcissa has any idea who 'Van Halen' is, but he has no doubt this is her doing. Her hand is all over this, not to mention he can smell traces of the jasmine scent she wears on the cotton. She handpicked these things specifically for him, he knows it. It wouldn't surprise him in the least if she still tries to pick out Draco's clothes as well.

Dressed, he firecalls Neville and asks him about the gardens. Neville's more than happy to come over and take a look, and there's not a hint of reservation that Harry can perceive. He tells Harry he'll send an owl to Narcissa to confirm. When Harry tells him that isn't necessary, Neville frowns and says, "Of all people, Harry, you should know that propriety has its place."

Nev's right of course, so Harry wishes him well and ends the call, knowing he'll see him soon. He's finishing tying the laces on his trainers when Blinky pops in.

"Brunch is being served, Master Harry. Will you be to joining Miss Cissa and Master Dragon?"

Harry stands up with a sigh and a smile. It seems so simple, brunch with Narcissa and Draco. Like it's an everyday occurrence. What if it was? He pauses for a moment, positive the thought will elicit a reaction from the Manor.

Nothing.

Harry mentally shrugs. Maybe this one he's meant to figure out on his own. So he goes with his gut and gives Blinky a wide smile and reaches for her hand. "I'd love to."


	8. Chapter 8

"Harry, there you are." Narcissa's voice is fond as he strolls into the dining room. "I was hoping you would join us. It seems we've all gotten a late start this morning." Her face is open and bright, while Draco sits next to her, glowering at his plate.

Blinky lets go of his hand. "You's be sitting, Master Harry. Blinky is to be bringing you breakfast." The cheery little elf prods him in the direction of the nearest chair, forcing him down into it with a tiny, but very strong grip on his elbow.

As he sits, Draco's audible gasp is heard from the other end of the table.

"What?" Harry asks, noting the way Narcissa's face goes a little pale. Draco's jaw tenses and the hand holding his fork in midair drops to the table with a heavy thunk.

"It's alright, Draco." Narcissa puts a hand on her son's arm. "Blinky wouldn't have directed him there if—"

"It's _Father's_ seat," Draco hisses at her.

Harry glances down, realizing that Blinky has, in fact, put him at the head of the table. Where the patriarch sits. Where Lucius Malfoy would be sitting if he were still alive. This can't be right. He expects the mistake to be rectified at once. Maybe the house will oust him from the chair. Maybe the specter of an angry Lucius Malfoy will make his presence known and wreak havoc until Harry gets his arse out of the chair. But nothing like that happens.

"I can—here, I'll move. I didn't even realize—" Harry's words trail as he moves to rise, but now there's a twinge of magic not just over the chair, but the entire table. It's weighing him down, and he can't get up. His legs feel bolted to the floor, and his arse feels like it's become permanently attached to the velvet cushion underneath it. The Manor doesn't want him to move. It doesn't want to let him go.

He shifts helplessly in the ornate chair, a little disgruntled that he's being subdued. A quick glance down the table has him watching Narcissa as wonder flits over her face like the flicker of a candle. It pauses, leaving behind a receptive smile. She's apparently more in tune with what's going on, which isn't surprising.

"Stay seated, Harry," she says. "There's no need to move. All is as it should be."

He complies, though he knows he couldn't move if he wanted to. Harry's a powerful wizard, but he's fairly certain the Manor could wipe with floor with him if it were so inclined. The smile on Narcissa's face is reassuring, and he can't detect any hint of malice in the magic. Yes, it's strong, but it's insistent, almost entreating in a way.

"You can't be serious, Mother!" Draco seethes next to her. His eyes are narrowed in contempt, his knuckles white from the clenched fists he has resting on the table. "The head of house always—"

"This house has no head!" she shoots back in annoyance. "Your father saw to that. And you have chosen not to take his place there. The house has made other arrangements, it seems." Her eyes flash at Draco and he backs down. "Even if only in the interim." She directs her gaze back to Harry. "Keep your seat, Harry. Everything is fine."

The meddlesome house irritates him to no end. First, it's the silk-draped fantasy of Draco Malfoy in his bed, and now it's the high-handed show of power that's got him glued to this seat. But Harry knows that on some level he _asked_ for this. He's still not certain if it's his magic, or the Manor, or a conspiracy of the two. He called for sanctuary. And this is what he got.

Harry grips the armrests of the chair tighter, preparing to see just how much the house is willing to accommodate him. "Fine," he says loudly into the air, "I'll accept the head. But I prefer to take my meals in a more intimate setting." That's the truth; he really doesn't want to spend the rest of his meals here down at the arse-other end of the table. The rectangular monstrosity seats sixteen, which given that it's only the three of them, is ridiculous. Harry waits, curious to see what happens next.

Narcissa and Draco gasp again as the extra chairs lining the table start disappearing one by one with a succession of audible pops. Once gone, a shudder of magic ripples over the table and it begins to shrink down toward Narcissa and Draco at the other end, stopping when it reaches a much smaller size. Only one extra chair remains, and it's opposite Draco, yet the table looks as if it can seat six comfortably. Harry's not at all surprised when his chair starts sliding across the floor toward the table. When Harry's flush, staring much closer at Narcissa and Draco's faces (hers amused, his slightly appalled), Blinky pops in with his breakfast.

"This is being much more cozy for the family," she says, putting down a full English in front of him. Blinky fusses with his napkin, and pats at him with a cheery grin. "Will Master Harry be taking tea or coffee?"

It's pointless now to be surprised by anything else that happens, Harry realizes. He can't control the house, or its magic, but the one thing he can control is his reaction to it. Nothing sinister has happened so far, and Blinky is beside herself with happiness. Narcissa seems resigned, and Draco—well, Draco's going to be the only foreseeable obstacle. Barring that, there's nothing he can do except follow the lead. He smiles at Blinky.

"Coffee would be lovely."

Blinky pours from a silver pitcher, and Harry tucks into his breakfast because he doesn't know how to follow showy house magic. "Pass the salt" seems a bit underwhelming.

Narcissa sips her tea and dabs at her mouth with her napkin before addressing him. "I trust your quarters are acceptable?"

"Yes, you've thought of everything. Thank you."

She waves her hand. "It was no trouble, I assure you. We merely want you to be as comfortable as possible." Her head turns to her son. "Don't we, Draco?"

Draco's face is pinched around the edges, but there's no outright frown. He looks constipated.

"Of course, Mother. Harry's comfort is our foremost priority."

He'd like to say that he's not outwardly affected at how hearing his given name rolls off Draco's tongue, but he is. It doesn't go unnoticed by Narcissa, either.

"Well," she says, amused, "it looks as though you two had a lovely chat last night."

Harry swallows a mouthful of fluffy omelet. "We did. I think Draco and I have come to an agreement to put the past behind us."

Narcissa looks to Draco for confirmation. His head is bowed over his toast, and he crunches into it with force, nodding curtly.

"He did show me the studio," Harry adds. "It will perfectly suit my needs. Everything here will."

Draco's eyes are still firmly fixed on his half-empty plate, and that attractive blush is creeping into his cheeks again. Harry's not sure if it's from the scrutiny he's giving Draco, or more the fact that Draco doesn't like to be talked about as if he's not even in the room.

"Oh, that's wonderful, Harry. But there's no need to rush yourself into anything. Take some time to rest, as well. In fact, I think the two of you should have a good, old-fashioned lie-in today."

Draco chokes on his toast, spraying crumbs everywhere.

Harry reaches out and claps him soundly on the back. He coughs and splutters, shooting daggers at his mother with his gaze through each hacking breath.

"I don't think she meant together," Harry chuckles.

Narcissa rubs a hand over Draco's arm. "Of course not."

Draco sits back and inhales a cleansing breath before downing a gulp of water. "That's not what—I didn't—oh, bugger off, Potter." He shakes off Harry's touch with a violent shudder.

Narcissa tsks under her breath at her son's language, but Harry simply smiles at her. "I don't think you'd be up for it anyway," He grins at Narcissa. "I'm a cuddler."

Wide gray eyes meet his and Draco's mouth falls open to reply with something snarky, Harry's sure of it, when Narcissa replies from behind the rim of her tea cup. "So is Draco."

The teasing from his mother has to be the last straw, because Draco's head whips around to seethe, _"Merlin, Mother!"_ at her with the most indignant of hisses. He pushes back from the table with a jerk and throws his napkin into his plate with a huff. "If you'll excuse me, I'm expecting a firecall from Switzerland this morning. A business associate is sending over some contracts that need to be signed. I'll be busy well into the evening, so don't bother calling me for dinner." He glares at his mother once more before turning to Harry and inclining his head. "Harry."

"Draco," Harry parrots, a tiny smile tugging at the edge of his lips.

With that, Draco is gone, and Harry can't resist the bubble of laughter that escapes when the doors are slammed shut behind the retreating blond.

"I suppose I shouldn't tease him."

Narcissa waves a hand. "Draco's always had a hard time not taking himself too seriously. He's much better than he used to be." Her eyes glint in the streams of sunlight cascading in through the windows. "He interests you," she says. "Draco."

"Yes." There's so much more to it than that, but Harry can't find the words.

"That's good, because my son is interesting. There's more to him than a handsome face."

Harry sips his coffee, and decides now that he's admitted to himself, there's no point in trying to hide it from Narcissa. "You're right, but I won't deny that I find him very attractive. In many ways."

"Because of the kind of man he is?" It's a loaded question, and now Harry has absolutely no doubt that Narcissa knows not only exactly what kind of man her son is, but what kind of man Harry is as well. There's no judgment in her tone; she asks the question as if it's a point of fact. As if his and Draco's sexual inclinations are as mundane as discussing the weather.

And it's with a clear and pointed honesty that Harry looks Narcissa right in the eye and replies, "Because of the man he's become."

It's clearly the right thing to say because Narcissa's face glows with approval. The fact that it's the absolute truth is simply par for the course. But she's slightly hesitant, if the miniscule tremble to her fingers is anything to by. He's good enough at this to know whatever's happened in Draco's immediate past (Switzerland) gives her reason to worry. Harry feels compelled to take his honesty one step further. "I don't know about Draco's previous relationships, but I think you should know that have no plans to hurt him. Now, or in the future. Even if we become nothing more than friends."

"I know," she says with a wry smile, "because if you did, you wouldn't have lasted the night."

Her well-schooled expression makes him shiver beneath his skin, and he's reminded that sitting across from him is a woman who is most likely the greatest Occlumens of any recorded age. A woman by virtue of her own cunning skill managed to elude taking the Mark, kept her true feelings hidden from both her husband and the Dark Lord, harbored said Dark Lord under her roof, and lied to his face without breaking a sweat. Killing Harry in his sleep has got to be a parlor trick.

"Am I to take that as encouragement?"

"If you like." That's as close to an endorsement as he's going to get for the moment, but it blossoms in his heart all the same.

The tapping at the window breaks the mood as Blinky pops in to let open it for the fluffy gray owl. It immediately settles on Blinky's arm and she trots it over to Narcissa. Her eyes widen in surprise as she examines the outstretched leg. "It's from your Mr. Longbottom. I didn't expect to hear anything so quickly."

"I firecalled him this morning. Nev said he'd send something over."

"Well, I'll take this into my study and see if a reply is necessary." She places her napkin on the table and rises slowly. "Blinky, would take the owl, please?" Harry follows in deference as Blinky hops out of the room.

"Please sit, enjoy your breakfast. I presume I will see _you_ at dinner, if not my son," she says smiling.

"I wouldn't miss it. And I'll talk to Draco. Let him know that we're not actually conspiring against him."

"Yes, but don't draw too much attention to it. You'll do more harm than good."

"Noted."

She turns with a rustle of skirts, and all of a sudden Harry feels an emptiness in his chest the farther away she moves. It's a little thing, this want that has unfurled inside him, something easily pushed aside, but he finds he can't bear to squash it.

"Narcissa?"

"Yes?" She stops and looks back, and he could stare into the acceptance he sees in her eyes forever.

Harry opens his arms. "Would you mind?"

She's in his arms in an instant, enfolding him in sweet jasmine and crinkly silk. Her hand is pressed to the top of his back, right between his shoulder blades. It's so comforting, so warm, this different fire that she incites to burn inside him.

"You must think me rather silly, I suppose, asking for a hug in broad daylight," he murmurs into her hair. "I don't think I ever asked for a hug before. They've always been sort of given to me." He pulls back to see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. Happy ones, he surmises, based on the brightness glimmering there. "I hope Draco doesn't think I'm trying to steal you away from him or some such nonsense."

"My son is wiser than he seems." Her breath is soft in the air between them. "Don't let it worry you. A mother's love is the foundation on which all confident men are bred." Her hand cups his cheek, and Harry leans into it, leans into the raw affection he feels there. "And I have enough love for the both of you, whenever you require it."

"Thank you." It's inadequate, but it's heartfelt.

"You're more than welcome. Enjoy your afternoon, Harry."

Harry watches her go, head held high, with smooth, gliding steps. He can still feel her warmth, just like he can feel the Manor's magic wrapped around his knees. It's determined to ground him here, to brand him into this place, to make him a part of it. He wonders if he should feel guilty about the way he's responding to Narcissa Malfoy. He wonders if it's an insult to his own mother. Somehow, Harry has the feeling that if everything had happened in the opposite direction, he'd be watching Lily Potter mother Draco Malfoy.

The magic pinning him to the floor thrums in agreement.


	9. Chapter 9

"Circe's tits, Draco, you look like shit. You're not sleeping, are you?"

Harry's hand lowers outside the cracked door to what appears to be Draco's study. It's ajar enough to allow him to look inside without being seen from the hallway. Draco's bent slightly at the waist, with his back to the door, speaking with a good-looking bloke from the Floo. He makes a mental note to ask how many Floos the Manor has, since there seems to be one in just about every room.

"I sleep just fine, Renault," Draco replies with a drawl.

"Tell that to the heaps of luggage under your eyes. You look positively dreadful." The other man's tone is jovial, but Harry hears the undertone of worry it carries. This man cares for Draco.

"How flattering."

"Not still pining after Blaise, then?"

Draco's posture stiffens, but he doesn't rise. "No," he says firmly. "My relationship with Blaise has run its course. Permanently. There's nothing in Switzerland left for me but you and the chocolate."

Harry's eyes widen. Blaise Zabini? _So that's the reason he left England._

"Then it's high time you found yourself someone new, darling. Celibacy has never been a good look for you. You're far too debauched for that sort of thing."

Draco laughs, really laughs, and Harry marvels at the true ring of sound. He's glimpsed it before, and it trills sweetly in his ears. Draco needs to laugh more often.

"And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you? Deviant prick." Draco's tone is light and teasing, almost sultry, and it hits Harry straight at the base of his spine. This flicker of Draco's true nature is addictive, and it makes Harry wonder what else Draco's been hiding.

"Not that I don't love chatting with you, but you realize there would less of this back and forth if you would just claim the trust. It makes the paperwork so much easier, and it would certainly give you more time to your hobbies." Renault's face cracks into a wide grin. "I've missed seeing you at the club, despite Blaise's idiocy." When Draco doesn't respond, he adds, "I am sorry about that. If I'd known that's what he was planning, I'd never have agreed to it, you know that, don't you?"

Draco sighs, a long, forlorn exhalation of breath. "I know, Renault. Nothing about him was what I expected, and I suppose it's the same for him. I can't look back and I can't go forward, either. It seems what I want isn't to be found. Not there and certainly not here." Draco's fingers clench at his side. "It's alright, though. I guess you can't really miss what you never had."

Draco sounds wistful and tired, like a man who's resigned himself to a certain point of fact.

"Don't let it close you off. Don't let one bad apple put you off fruit entirely." Renault smiles with cheek. "The world is your orchard, Draco Malfoy. And I know how much you love apples."

Draco waves a hand at him and chuckles. "Merlin, you're maudlin."

There's a bellow from the Floo and the other man looks back and then to Draco again. "I've got to go, love. Duty calls. Remember what I said about the trust. The longer you put it off, the worse it's going to be."

"Go back to Heinrich, Renault. I'll send these along when I've looked them over."

"Heinrich was ages ago. This one's called Raoul." Renault sucks in a lascivious breath. "Exquisitely exotic."

"You're a lech," Draco laughs.

"What? As gorgeous as Heinrich was, he was as thick as a post. There's something to be said for actual conversation, you know. One can only hear, "Fuck me harder" so many times before it gets tedious. In German, no less."

"Go away, you bastard," Draco says lightly. "I'll owl you soon."

"Very well, but you should come to Lucerne. And bring your mother, because if I have to stare at your brooding face the whole time I'll go spare. It puts me off my tea," Renault pouts.

"Go," Draco shoos.

Renault winks at him and disappears from the Floo. Draco turns and begins to flip idly through the paperwork on his desk, pausing for brief seconds before continuing to read.

"Lurking in corridors, are we?"

Harry pushes open the door and strides into the room, unashamed at being caught.

"I was going to knock. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but I didn't want to interrupt you, either."

Draco makes a noncommittal noise and glances down at his paperwork again. "What do you want?"

"About breakfast—I don't want you to think I'm trying to usurp your authority or anything. I'm not sure why your house is doing these things, but—"

Draco's head snaps up. "I know." Harry expects to see more of Draco's earlier indignation, but there's nothing behind his gray eyes but flat acceptance. "Your do-gooder Gryffindor nature wouldn't allow it. And there's nothing to usurp, as my mother so tactfully pointed out. I'm assuming the house magic is latching on to the nearest powerful presence." A pale eyebrow rises in a perfect arch. "Of course, that would be you."

"Why haven't you taken the trust?" he blurts. Harry has no idea what's holding Draco back, after all, isn't this the very thing he's wanted? The head of house, the seat on the Wizengamot that comes with it, the rightful title as Lord Malfoy. He's been primed since birth to accept the mantle. Hell, he was prepared to follow his father into service for a Dark Lord for a promise of the glory to be had. To have it within his reach now and not take it makes Harry wonder if Draco ever wanted it in the first place.

"A number of reasons. All of them personal, thank you very much." Draco's frosty tone isn't steady.

Harry shrugs. "I just don't understand why you've not taken things over from your father. It's your birthright, isn't it? This is your proper place in the grand scheme, right?"

"My father didn't think kindly on the sort of man I'd become. I'd failed him at every turn." Draco's eyes shadow with haunted memory. "I was a terrible Death Eater, I barely graduated from the same institution I tried to help bring down, and to add insult to injury, I prefer wizards to witches, so he could see the dream of the hallowed Malfoy line circling the drain." He barks out a sarcastic laugh. "Oh yes, he was so proud. I'm sure I was the talk of block in Azkaban. Lucius Malfoy's pathetic queer of a son. Even worse," he presses his hand to his chest in mock horror, "a bottom." Draco shakes his head. "Scandalous." Draco steps out from behind his desk to rest against the front, crossing his arms over his chest. "There didn't seem to be a point to taking up where he left off. He wouldn't have wanted me to have it anyway."

"But everything was willed to you, wasn't it? That should mean something," Harry entreats.

"A matter of oversight, I'm sure. I don't think updating his will was his first priority while withering away in prison." Draco sighs, and it's a heavy sound that echoes through the room. "I disappointed him, and he was ashamed of me. I didn't care either way. It was one of the reasons I went to Switzerland in the first place with Blaise. If I wasn't going to give a fuck, I might as well go all the way." Draco's lips curl into a wry smile full of regret. "I suppose it doesn't matter now, anyway. He was right. He told me I wouldn't end up happy with Blaise. He's right, and now he's dead." Draco pulls a disinterested face, and his arms fall his side. He braces his hands on the edge of the desk. "And I can't step into his shoes knowing that for all I was angry with him, the bastard was right all along."

"You know I've never been a fan of your father's, but I can't imagine he was right about everything. He made his fair share of poor decisions. I don't think he could really fault you for that."

Draco chuckles. "You _have_ met my father, haven't you? Think about what you just said."

Harry laughs along with him. "You know what I mean. Running off just to arse your father can't possibly compete with the idiocy attributed to Lucius Malfoy."

"I know," Draco says soberly. His voice goes quiet and soft around the edges, and his eyes search the rug beneath his feet. "It's just that if I take his place, it means he's really gone. If I can still be angry with him, then it's like he's still here. If I lose that and accept what he left for me, then he's really dead." Draco's eyes glance up to meet Harry's, and Harry is lost in the pain he sees there. "As much as he hated me, as enormous a bastard as he was, he was still my father. And there's a rather large part of me that doesn't want him to be gone. Because even after everything, I still love him."

Harry's breath leaves him in a rush. Draco's heartfelt admission is staggering. "I can't even begin to know how you feel. I'm so sorry, Draco."

"Don't," Draco says roughly. "I know you lost people, too. I know my grief isn't any more special than anyone else's."

"No, I'm not saying that, but listen; I grew up hating my aunt and uncle. Until I came to Hogwarts, I didn't really care about anyone. In those few years, I came to love so many people, and lost a lot of them, yes. I didn't have time to develop the kind of relationship that you had with your father. It would have been so much worse for me if I had. I don't love lightly, and I suspect neither do you. I can only imagine your heartbreak at losing him."

Suddenly, there's a sneer painted across Draco's lips and ice in his words. "I suppose you think I'm weak, don't you? A man who can't stand up to his father, even after he's dead. A man who would willingly get on his knees for someone else's pleasure. A man who can't take what is rightfully his because he knows deep down he's not worthy of it."

Harry catches Draco's gaze and holds it. "You're as worthy a man as I've ever met. You've shown that much. And there is no weakness in submission, Draco."

Draco rolls his eyes with exaggerated zeal and huffs, "Spoken like a true Dom. And I'm assuming you are, if the _Prophet_ is to be believed. If this is the part where you say I've been kneeling for the wrong people, I'll pass." Draco's left arm twitches. "I've made rather a habit out of it. Blaise took great pains to remind me of that fact."

Potter snorts with derision. "Then he's an idiot."

"What?"

The proverbial ball is rolling, and Harry thinks it's time he made himself a little more visible in Draco's vision. "I think Blaise Zabini had you on your knees and didn't have the first clue what to do with you."

"And you would?" Harry knows Draco means to sound combative, like the 'Scared, Potter?' of their boyhood taunts, but it comes out colored with genuine confusion.

"Yes." Harry leans in, getting close enough to smell Draco's aftershave, and his voice drops to a low rumble. "Yes, I would."

Draco's spine snaps to attention, and his eyes narrow on Harry's. "No, thank you. I know how this game is played. I've been tied up and laughed at for what I want, what I am. I have no desire to repeat the experience."

Harry sucks in a breath at the thought. "Then you don't know me as well as you think you do. Neither does the _Prophet_. I don't see this as a game. And if I were ever fortunate enough to have you in my bed, beautifully tied, wanton and begging for my touch, I wouldn't mock you for it." Harry lets his voice pitch lower to drip over Draco like honey. "I would _worship_ you for it."

Draco gapes at him, pupils blown wide with incredulity, unable to speak. He's thinking about it, Harry knows, has to be because they're close enough to touch now. He's thinking about what it would be like to be in Harry's bed, trussed up and exposed, naked, with nothing but the promise of pleasure between them. Harry knows because it's the same thought that's running rampant in his head at the moment. The same thought that's got him hard in his jeans, itching to run his hands and his mouth all over Draco's prone body, leaving marks of said worship behind like a victory flag.

But for all Draco's responding, he's still got a lesson to learn. His behavior is self-indulgent, reckless and selfish, and it will lead them nowhere. Not if Harry lets it go unchecked. Harry pulls back and regards him with not with a glare, but with a stony countenance that exudes authority. If he balks now, there's very little hope in getting Draco to come around. But if he concedes, then Harry knows it's merely the matter of a firm hand before Draco settles and accepts what is happening between them. What could be inevitable. Harry's patient, but he's not interested in manipulating Draco to become someone he can't be. Experience tells him it's best to know now.

"I'll expect to see you at dinner this evening," Harry says with finality. "Your mother may be used to dealing with your petulance, but I'll not tolerate it. She enjoys sharing meals with you. It disappoints me that you would deprive her of that for your own childish whims. Understood?"

The effect is instantaneous, and the wind blows from Draco's sails. His shoulders droop as his face lines with remorse. To his credit, he swallows, but does not look away, taking the rebuke and shouldering its consequences.

"Very well," Draco says. The tone is low, but steady.

Harry leans closer, lips almost brushing, as he frowns. "In the future, a 'Yes, Harry' shall suffice."

Draco swallows again, as if he's having hard time keeping moisture in his mouth. "Yes, Harry."

Harry turns his head and lets his breath ghost over Draco's ear. The resulting shudder makes Harry smile. "Oh, that's much better." He turns and heads for the door, calling over his shoulder, "Enjoy the rest of your afternoon."


	10. Chapter 10

Draco comes to dinner as requested, wearing his haughtiness like a mantle, as if the reason he decided to join them is because he has deigned to do so, and not because of Harry. He makes small talk with his mother and Harry, keeps his expression light, and is in general, a wonderful dinner companion.

It's all a lie, and Harry knows it.

Despite the outward appearance of obedience, Harry knows Draco is tweaked about the whole situation. He thinks it goes deeper than Draco just being a cheeky sub, especially since whatever they are to each other has yet to take shape. He's not coy, not aloof, not trying to draw Harry's attention in that way. It's not about balking against the Dom/sub dynamic. Harry doesn't even think it's about him, per se, but more about Draco's acceptance of himself. And their conversation earlier makes it perfectly clear to Harry that Draco doesn't know who or what he is, so he's relying on the self-preservation tactics he's used in the past.

Harry knows if he waits, if he ignores it for now, Draco won't be able to stand it. The temptation to throw his carefully constructed mask in Harry's face will be too much for him, and Draco will instigate something. Because if nothing else, Draco is a hopeless instigator.

Which is totally fine with Harry.

It will be a perfect opportunity to make things plain once and for all.

Draco listens with impressively faked interest as Narcissa goes on about Neville's impending arrival. Harry knows Nev's extremely low on Draco's list of people to ever see again, but the smile at her words isn't false. Draco may not want Neville in his home, but he's pleased to see his mother so animated.

A point in Draco's favor.

Harry makes a concerted effort to catch Draco's gaze every so often through the meal, catch it and hold it warmly. It's genuine on his part, partly because Draco is just so lovely to look at, and partly to make his point. The façade drops once or twice, but Draco's been trained to conceal his true emotions since he was born. He crumples under extreme stress, as attested by the war, but this—this is more of a political arena. The sort of thing Draco's used to. Managing himself in the cold face of others, calculating someone's true agenda, while hiding his own. Harry kind of wants to shake him and tell him that this is personal; it's not politics. He's not trying to committee Draco into his bed.

Narcissa excuses herself, refusing dessert, claiming to need time to make arrangements for Neville's arrival. Nev's not coming until Friday, and here it is, Tuesday evening. Her excitement is easy to detect. She spares a kiss on the cheek for each of them before gliding out of the dining room in her usual regal fashion, except for a hint of breathlessness as she goes.

Draco's still spooning trifle into his mouth, holding back on the sigh of pleasure Harry's sure he wants to make but doesn't.

Dabbing at the corner of his mouth, he says, "You don't have to stay for me. I'm quite capable of finishing a meal by myself."

"I was thinking of spending some time in the library this evening." Harry places his napkin on the table, he lets out a groan of contentment. "My luck I'll probably fall asleep in there. I ate far too much. Please forward my appreciation to Cook."

Draco rests his hands on the tablecloth as his eyes latch onto the arrangement of flowers in the middle of the table. "You did this for me, didn't you?" he asks, hands clenching into fists. "You asked Cook to make all my favorite things." He swallows hard as his eyes dart to the side. "This is some sort of reward for doing as I'm told, isn't it?"

Harry stands up from his chair and moves to Draco's side, placing his right hand on the back of Draco's chair, and his left on the table next to Draco's. Close enough to touch, but Harry doesn't, because the boundaries of touch have yet to be liberated. He chooses to answer the question by not answering it.

"Thank you for coming to dinner. Your mother was pleased, as I'm sure you could tell. It made her happy."

Draco keeps his stare focused on the small centerpiece. "What about you?" His voice is quiet, tone low and soft.

"What about me?"

"Did—did it make you happy?"

The question is unexpected.

Harry's index finger stretches to draw a lazy circle on the tablecloth, still so close but not touching. Draco tenses, as if he is anticipating the contact.

"Yes," he replies with same amount of softness. "It did. But it would be better if next time you meant it. I can appreciate the effort you made. I know you did it for her, and not for me."

Draco's breath catches and he turns his face upward to look at Harry, his eyes a mixture of surprise and wonder.

Harry slips his hand from the table. "Good night, Draco."

OOOOO

Draco barrels into the room, stomping across the floor like a man on a mission. His angry strides take him right past Harry; Draco doesn't even look at him, just tears across the rug until he comes to a stop at the reading table against the back wall.

Harry's glance peeks over the book in his hands. Draco's braced his hands on the table and is staring up at the painting on the wall. It's an image of the Manor in winter, coldly regal in all its glory, with the swirl of magical snow dancing about the landscape. Draco's mouth opens and then shuts on a snap. He does it twice more before the words finally come, as icy and frigid as the painting's subject.

"I know what you're doing."

Harry flips the page, keeping his eyes on the text. "I'm in the library. Reading," he drawls. "Well spotted. Ten points to Slytherin."

Draco huffs and shakes his head. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry sees the bob of Draco's throat and the hang of his head. With a jerk, Draco flips around to face Harry, bracing his hands behind him on the table. His body leans forward, almost accusingly.

"You're trying to seduce me."

Harry snorts and sits up from his reclining position on the chaise, placing the volume of Rumi's collected works on the side table. He doesn't respond, instead taking in the way Draco's practically vibrating with restrained emotion. Harry scoots back, getting more comfortable. He adjusts his dressing gown, pulling it out from where it's bunched up beneath him. He's aware that Draco's getting an eyeful of his bare chest as he does so, but he blinks twice at Draco and says calmly, "I'm not trying to seduce you, Draco."

"Of course you are!" Draco hisses in return. "I'm not stupid. Don't think I don't know what all your _alluring alpha posturing_ is all about." His eyes narrow and the point of his chin thrusts out as he continues, "And here you are, half-naked, _lounging_ about on the furniture. It's so obvious, it's pathetic." The tirade is delivered with the same high-handed affront Harry remembers from his youth. 'My father will hear about this' could be tacked on at the end, and he'd be right back at Hogwarts.

Harry wants to smile at the infantile indignation, but decides instead to play it straight. After all, that's what he wants. For Draco to understand that this isn't a game, it's simply who he is.

"I know you want me." The statement is gritted out through Draco's clenched teeth like it pains him to put voice to it. "Do you deny it? That you want to get me into your bed?"

The amusement is gone in a flash and the truth pours out of Harry like water. His eyes harden and he lays Draco flat with a stare. "Yes, I want you. But I'm not trying to seduce you. That's not how I do things. I won't chase you, I won't beg. I don't subscribe to manipulative falsehoods to get you where I want you. I'm not trying to seduce you because I don't have to."

Draco's gray eyes blow wide with either shock or arousal, possibly a bit of both. He splutters, but can't manage a coherent retort.

Harry rises from the chaise with a whisper of satin as the dressing gown drags on the upholstery. Draco tracks every move as Harry crosses to stand in front of him. His face morphs into a shell of disdain.

"I see. What, the Dom snaps his fingers, and the su—I'm just supposed kneel for you?" Draco's furious gaze cuts through to Harry, slicing over his skin. "You don't think this is pursuit? Throwing yourself at me and making me—" He stops, swallowing the last of his words.

"No," Harry says, his lips pursed into a tight line. "This is me, showing you what I have to offer. Openly, honestly. I can't help it if you're responding to that. I haven't made a move toward you. If I had, you'd already be in my bed and this conversation would be pointless. I don't need to pursue anything. You'll either come to me, or you won't. It's as simple as that."

Draco's eyelids slam shut and his head jerks to the side. "Why did you have to show up here? Why is this my life?" He opens his eyes and turns a haunted gaze on Harry. "How is this my life now?"

"I don't know," Harry says softly. "But I'm here, and this isn't going away. Not until we confront it."

Anger seeps back into Draco's words. "Confront it? There's nothing to confront! You've realized there's a convenient toy within your reach, and you just want to fuck with it to pass the time."

Harry reels back at the vehemence that rolls off Draco. His hands are clenched around the edge of the table so hard, they've gone white, and Draco's shoulders are trembling under the force. He's holding back so much, trying so hard to keep his cool, and losing it slowly by precious seconds. He lashes out to ease the growing pressure within, keeping himself at a set simmer in order to prevent the whole pot from boiling over.

"I want to fuck you, there's no doubt. I want to put my hands and mouth on you and make you beg for it. I want to tie down and spread you open with my tongue. I want to slide my cock into your body and fuck you so hard you forget your own name." Draco pales at the blatant declaration, but then Harry watches as the blood slowly creeps back, flushing high on his cheeks. His pupils dilate until only a ring of gray is visible, and there's a growing bulge at the front of his trousers. "I want all of that and more. I want to talk to you, laugh with you, spend time with you. In bed and out. It's true I don't know why I'm here, but it's pretty clear that you're a part of it. And if it didn't feel right, I'd know, because there's no way my magic or my conscience would allow me to stay if it wasn't." Harry shoulders out of the dressing gown, dropping it to the floor with a swish. "I'm not perfect," he says, running his hands over the circular-shaped scar on his chest, "but I'm a good man. And this is what I have to give you. A scarred body and a reshaped soul that is as demanding as you think it is. I know what I want, what I need. But if you aren't the least bit interested, tell me, and that's the end of it."

Draco opens his mouth, and Harry waits to hear the kiss-off, because Draco's made it plain that he's unwilling to recognize or admit to his own needs.

"I'm not perfect either." Draco's hand ghosts over the front of his shirt. "Blaise used to lament the fact that you left your mark on me. It irritated him. He talked about actually branding me before the end."

Harry's eyes snap to Draco's face at that. "Show me."

Draco's breath falters and he licks his lips. This is a tipping point, a weight on the scale. Harry knows the command in his voice resonates in the sudden stillness of the room, and he waits. Waits to see if Draco is going to obey, because if he does it's one step closer to closing this gap between them.

Slowly, Draco's fingers unfurl from the table's edge and drift up to undo the buttons of his shirt. It takes what seems like ages before he pulls back the fabric to reveal the thin, whip-like slashes on his chest. Harry's heart slams against his ribcage like a Bludger. His mouth goes dry as he sees Draco, bleeding out on a bathroom floor, and remembered fear clogs in his throat. But there's a chance to change all of that, to reinvent the dynamic of Harry and Draco. One that will be as passionate and powerful, but infinitely more satisfying.

Draco merely has to ask for it.

Harry reaches up and traces the edge of Draco's shirt with his index finger, careful not to touch, trailing up the fabric until it reaches the collar. He pulls his hand back and looks Draco in the eye. "Thank you," he says, voice full of praise and awe. "I know how hard it must be to bare even a little of yourself to me."

Draco rolls his bottom lip between his teeth and his lashes flutter. "I—I honestly don't think about it much anymore. It's just another mark, I suppose."

Harry's eyes flick down to Draco's chest and he inhales sharply before meeting Draco's gaze again. "Think about what I said. I mean it, I won't chase you. The choice has always been yours." He steps back and retrieves the dressing gown from the floor. "And Draco, when I mark you again, it will be because you want me to."

OOOOO

Draco stumbles forward once the door shuts behind Potter, bracing himself with one hand on the table. The gasp that escapes him is entirely involuntary. He's panting like he's run from here to Hogwarts and back, double time, with a hippogriff strapped to his back the entire way. He blinks twice, unable to see or think of anything beyond two crystal clear factors. One, Draco can still feel Potter's body heat, hovering over his skin like that first tingle of magic you get when you hold a wand for the first time. Nervous, exciting, and an altogether visceral rush that strangles out all other feeling. And two, Potter said 'when', not 'if'.

_When._

The thought is simultaneously terrifying and arousing, and the blood rushes to his cock in a painful surge, making sweat break out across his hairline and blurring his vision like he's been knocked in the head by a Thestral. He snorts against Potter's absurdly arrogant declaration, but there's a thrum within him that shaking its head and forcing him to look closer. No, it's not arrogance that Potter's throwing around, it's a deep-rooted confidence. One that bleeds capability. One that's got Draco's cock pulsing to beat the band, eight to the bar, a four on the floor jive of _whenwhenwhenwhen_.

Now he's thinking about it. Imagining it. Fantasizing about what exactly Potter might do, because if he's shown Draco anything at all since he's been here, it's that Potter is nothing like he imagined. It's overwhelming now, this physical reaction, and Draco sinks to his knees, slips his hand in his trousers, and pulls one off right there on the goddamned rug.

He's still panting, still blinded, with the blissed out tingle of stars behind his eyes and the half-formed plea of the word "Harry" on his tongue. He hasn't come that hard in ages. It's with a slow and growing horror that he realizes Potter didn't even have to lay a fucking finger on him to do it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI...I'm taking a short trip, so I won't post again for a bit. Don't leave me.

Draco makes himself scarce, which given the circumstances, doesn't seem at all odd. He's holed up in his study, platinum head bent over paperwork, every time Harry passes. Maybe he just needs time. Or maybe he'll ignore the situation altogether. It's a waiting game, and Harry's decided on patience.

In the meantime, he's busied himself with rearranging the studio. He's sent Blinky to Grimmauld more than once to retrieve some of his favored supplies and a few personal belongings, and also to reassure Kreacher that he's fine.

He wants to repay Narcissa for her unerring kindness, and after remembering the painting in the library, Harry decides exactly what he's going to do. He needs old photos for reference and mood, and just as he pushes back from his work table, there's an audible _pop_ , and an old photo album appears next to him.

He flips through it and smiles. It is precisely what he needs. Harry rolls his eyes and chuckles.

_This cheeky house._

The remainder of the day is spent sketching and researching, until his fingers are nearly black with charcoal. He misses the formal lunch, but Blinky (sweet Blinky) brings him a sandwich and watches him with narrowed eyes to make sure he eats.

Afternoon swells into evening, and Harry marvels at the magic infused in the room as the light wavers and changes without a word from him. His fingers begin to cramp and he casts a quick _Tempus_. It's almost nine, and he's missed dinner. Just as his stomach rumbles in protest, Blinky pops back in with a silver tray.

"Master Harry is to be eating. Blinky is be telling Miss Cissa and Master Dragon that Master Harry is being drawing. Miss Cissa is being pleased and sends Blinky with dinner."

Harry smiles fondly at the little elf. "Thank you, Blinky."

She prepares the tray and steps back, clasping her hands in front of her. She shifts from foot to foot, as if she has more to say.

"What is it?" Harry asks, swallowing a mouthful of roll.

"Miss Cissa is telling Master Dragon not to be being worried about Master Harry missing meals, but he is keeping looking at the empty chair where Master Harry sits."

"Oh?" Harry says with a raised eyebrow.

Blinky pads over and places her little hand on Harry's arm, looking quite serious. "Master Dragon—he is being trying," she says softly.

Harry reaches out and cradles her to him in a one-armed hug. He presses a small kiss to the top of her head and replies, "I know, Blinky. I know."

He makes quick work of his dinner and tidies up the studio, taking a moment to stretch once it's all done. He's made a bit of progress, and Harry has to admit he feels more accomplished than he has in ages. It's a good feeling.

As he shuts the door behind him, he thinks days spent like this could never be wasted.

OOOOO

When Harry opens the door to his room the oxygen is sucked from his lungs, and he almost braces himself on the door jamb for support.

Draco is naked, bathed in firelight, at the side of his bed. His back is to Harry, and he's kneeling, seated back on his heels in the waiting position, palms on his thighs facing upward, head bowed in silent supplication. He is lovely. The arch of his spine is graceful and serene, and Harry wonders if that beautiful stretch of skin tastes any different than the rest of him. He's held this pose often; there's an easy carriage to it that makes the blood pound in Harry's ears. The sight should be perfect. But it's not. There's something off, and Harry can't put his finger on it.

He knows Draco knows he's in the room; the door creaked when it opened. But when Harry takes a step inside, his trainer squeaks loudly on the wood floor, and Draco twitches. Not in a good way. The hope that blossomed in chest deflates slowly as he moves, desperate to disprove what he's knows he's going to find when he gets close enough to see.

Draco's not relaxed, but he's not tense, either. Harry moves to stand in front of him and looks down. Draco's cock is completely soft. It's not unheard of for subs to remain unaffected until the scene actually begins, but in Harry's experience, most subs are at least half-hard by this point. The anticipation itself is a point of arousal. But Draco's not aroused, not in the slightest, and that gives Harry considerable pause. His skin is pricked with a fine layer of sweat, but even with the fireplace going, it's not that warm in the room. He's not anticipating pleasure, he's—

"Look at me."

Draco's head pulls back, and when those silvery eyes lock with Harry's, the weight of what he sees drops like a rock into his belly.

Fear.

Shame.

A red haze filters over Harry's vision, and he tamps down the anger, careful to keep himself composed. He's got control over his emotions, but somehow the fiery storm in his blood freezes, and his words spill out into the room, cold as ice.

"Get dressed and get out."

"What?" Draco stares up at him, mouth agape. Harry's brows knit together on his forehead, and Draco awkwardly scrambles to his feet. "Wh—why?"

"Out." Harry raises his hand to point at the door, when Draco jerks back, arm flying up to cover his face. It's instinctive, and defensive, and it is the final nail in Blaise Zabini's coffin. When the blow never comes, Draco lowers his arms warily, casting panicked eyes on Harry. "And that right there is why this isn't happening tonight," he tells Draco roughly.

"I don't—"

Harry is seething on the inside, but takes great care to measure his words. They come out slowly, with a gravity that seems to press Draco into the floor. "Let's get one thing straight right now. I am not Blaise. I will never strike you out of anger. _Never._ Abuse is not in my nature. I will never do anything that is designed to injure you, humiliate you, or degrade you. Submission is a gift. One that I do not take lightly. Now get your things and go back to your room. We can discuss this at another time."

Draco makes a grab for his clothes and Harry's hands flex at his sides, mind reeling with the implications all this has brought to light.

Draco's face is red, embarrassed, and Harry can tell he's on the edge of either bursting into tears or lunging at Harry to have a go. His head whips back to Harry and he challenges, "You tell me to come to you, and I do, and then you tell me to leave. You run hot and cold, and I swear, you're just like—"

"Do not finish that sentence. You're not here because you want to be. You're here because you've been thinking about him, about me, about yourself, and you don't want to try to figure out what you want. It's messy and confusing, and you wish it would all go away. So you're here. Because you think a rough fuck will clear your head. You think a hard ride will either get Blaise out of your system, or you out of mine. But it won't make things easier. It will only complicate them more. I've never taken a lover against their will, and I'm not going to start tonight. Because I won't have you in my bed and then watch you walk out of here ashamed of what we've done." Harry exhales, long and slow, running a hand over his face. "Letting me fuck you isn't going to fix your issues with Blaise. If that's what you need, then you need to see a Mind Healer. And if you do, I will support you, but we cannot have a physical relationship with his shadow lurking over us. I would rather have you whole as a friend than broken as a lover."

Draco steps forward, chin thrust into the air. "Maybe I know what I need more than you. Maybe I don't really care what it is you want. You don't want to be compared to him, fine. But you're still like every other Dom I've known. Give a man a little control, and he'll take it all. I won't be powerless anymore. If that means I'm alone for the rest of my life, I'll deal with it."

"Power and control are two different things."

"No," Draco hisses, "they're exactly the same. And it's the only thing a man ever ends up wanting from me."

Harry shakes his head. "They're not the same, not at all. You need to understand that I may have control, Draco, but only you have the power to let me wield it. It will always be yours, because it is your choice. You choose to bestow your gift. Or take it away. Because a Dom without a sub is nothing."

Draco stands motionless, blank-faced, as if Harry's just introduced a concept that is completely alien to his scope of thought.

"I told you to go," Harry says with warning.

Draco doesn't move.

Harry steps closer and peers into Draco's face, forcing him to make eye contact. "If I have to put you out, you will not come back. Ever."

That gets his attention, and Draco shakes off the fog, backing away. "I'm going, but please, can I say one more thing?"

Harry drinks him in, standing naked with his clothes huddled in a ball in front of him like a shield, his eyes so stormy and yearning.

He can't say no. His brain won't let him. Harry's voice is rough when he says, "Say your piece."

Draco looks him in the eye and though he trembles, his gaze never wavers. "I want this. I want—you. I'm just afraid I don't know how to do it. I know in my heart that Blaise treated me terribly, but there's a tiny part of me that doesn't still wonder if the fault lies with me. If I was better, or more suited to—" his mouth works around the word like it's a marble in his mouth, "submission."

Draco shifts on his feet as Harry comes closer. It's the first time he's been able to articulate the word without a sneer or derision. Harry looks him over with a critical eye, silent and observant. Draco's telling the truth. Harry feels Draco's breath on his cheek, coming in short, soft pants. His eyes are wide and entreating, practically begging. For what, Harry's not sure. It's hard to tell over the clamoring in his own heart.

"Say something—anything, shout at me, curse at me, I don't care! Just don't stare at me like that, I can't abide it. Please." Draco's eyes squint shut. "Please, Harry. _Please._ "

The pleading is almost enough to break Harry's control, and his hands itch at his sides because he wants to reach for Draco.

Draco's eyes open and they're liquid and shining, his full lips quivering. "Touch me," he whispers. "Just _do_ something."

"I'm not going to touch you," Harry says, and the words sound like gravel in his throat.

"Why?"

Harry's stare holds the weight of his conviction. "Because you haven't earned it."

Draco deflates on a soft exhalation of breath, and he turns to go.

But the want in Harry is too great, and the hope that he and Draco can have something extraordinary burns too hot in his blood. The words flow out smoothly. "For this to work, you have to trust me. I will not have a lover who is afraid of me, or ashamed of who he is, or what we do. If you think you can come to terms with that and openly accept it, then come back to me. Because if you can do that, I can promise you that I will give you everything you need. I will take control, and I will make you feel more powerful that you could ever imagine."

Draco's out of the room like a shot, and Harry hears the door across the hall slam shut. A ripple of irritated magic pulses through the room and pushes at Harry, urging him toward the open door.

Harry digs in his heels. "No," he growls, "you're not orchestrating this time. I'm not chasing him. If you want to interfere so badly, then you go work your magic on Draco. It's his eyes that need to be opened, not mine."

The resulting shudder of magic comes off huffy and annoyed, and Harry thinks if a house had eyes to roll—

His own door slams shut with a bang.

_Bloody Draco. Bloody meddling Manor._


	12. Chapter 12

"Harry." Neville's face lights up as he follows Blinky into the parlor.

Narcissa and Draco rise to a stand as he crosses the room to envelop his old friend in a warm hug. Nev claps him on the back and then holds him at arm's length.

"You look good, mate. A hell of a sight better since last time I saw you."

Harry returns the smile. "Amazing what a bit of rest and the lack of nosy reporters will do."

Neville laughs, "I can imagine."

Harry steps to the side and ushers Neville forward. "Here, come in. Narcissa, Draco, may I present Neville Longbottom."

Narcissa drops into a sweeping curtsy, as elegant as ever. "Mr. Longbottom, you honor us with your presence."

Neville steps forward and reaches for her hand as she straightens. She offers it, and Neville bows formally. "It is you who honor me, Lady Malfoy. And please, call me Neville." His voice is low and deferential, and full of warmth.

Harry watches as Narcissa's eyes rove over Neville with careful interest at his tone. He releases her hand, and she pulls it back slowly, almost reluctantly. "Of course," she murmurs, "and it's Narcissa, please. We're not as formal as we used to be."

"Very well, Narcissa. I'll remember that. Thank you." Neville turns and offers Draco his hand without reservation. That's the one thing Harry loves about Neville. What's in the past is in the past. He's here on a clean slate, to see Harry and the greenhouse, nothing more. Neville's animosity is like his own: reconciled and forgotten. "Malfoy. It's been a while, hasn't it? I trust you are well?"

Draco looks at Neville's hand with trepidation for a split second, before he grasps it and shakes it with confidence. "Longbottom. Yes, it has. And I am well, thank you for asking."

"Neville," Neville says in response. "I think we're past last names."

Draco's face is a mask of formal cordiality, but Harry sees something underneath coming to the surface. It's a genuine acceptance, of both Neville and himself, that the old prejudices of the past are dead and buried. Harry watches as Draco's eyes flick to his for a moment before they return to Neville.

"You're right. Then it's Draco to you. Welcome to Malfoy Manor. We're pleased to have you."

Harry's chest swells and his breath catches. He'd expected nothing more than cold politeness from Draco, and here he is, welcoming Neville with genuine pleasure. And the short glance that Draco shoots him again only drives home his theory. This is for Harry. Yes, it probably has something to do with Draco letting go of old habits, but this is also Draco showing Harry that he is capable of anticipating Harry's wishes. Of welcoming Neville so warmly because it's what Harry wants. And he's done it without being asked. Even after the failure of last night's encounter, Draco is showing Harry that he can be a better man, that he's not harboring any petulance or affront after Harry all but tossed him out on his arse.

The promise in this one simple act has Harry's blood singing.

Harry can honestly say he doesn't remember much of the pleasantries after that. He's too caught up in Draco and the way he completely broadsided him. Neville and Narcissa have presumably gone off to the greenhouse, and he's left alone with Draco. Who, Harry suddenly realizes, is speaking to him.

"What?" Harry shakes his head and turns his eyes on Draco.

He smirks and chuckles. "I asked if you were alright. You went somewhere for a moment. I admit, seeing Longbottom was a shock for me, I mean, when did he get so fit? But you, you've seen him recently. Or were your thoughts elsewhere?" He says it like he knows what Harry was thinking, and maybe he does.

"My mind did wander for a moment, but I assure you, I'm right here," Harry replies.

"Good." Draco shifts on his feet, and his fingers fidget by his side. "I was thinking, since I believe they'll be a while in the greenhouse, that you would join me for tea?" He hesitates, and then continues, "I just thought we might enjoy the pleasure of each other's company for a while."

He's planning on spending the better part of the day in the studio again, but there's something about the soft, earnest quality in Draco's eyes and his gentle awkwardness that has Harry wanting to put him at ease. And frankly, the thought of spending an uninterrupted hour or two in Draco's presence just _being_ sends a delicious spike of yearning thrumming through his bloodstream.

Harry smiles at him, radiating agreement. "I think that's a wonderful idea."

OOOOO

The walk out to the greenhouse is punctuated by crisp gusts of frosty winter wind and a sporadic flurry of snowflakes. Neville's emanating a comfortable warmth from where their arms are entwined in a proper escorting fashion. Narcissa wonders briefly if a wandless Warming charm is at work. But the heat she feels is natural and organic in nature. And that is a curious thought on its own.

"Harry didn't mention that he and Draco are dating," Neville says casually.

"To my knowledge, they aren't," she replies. "At least not yet," she adds with a smile.

"Ah, I see." He says it like he knows something she doesn't. And he might, given that he knows Harry so well. "But you believe they will be soon, yes? I can hear it in your tone," he teases. "Mother's intuition?"

Her lips curl and her lashes lower demurely. "Possibly. Or maybe it's that I know my son as well as you know Harry. They've danced around in one way or another since the moment they met. Perhaps it's time they finally came together."

The greenhouse is up ahead, and if she's not mistaken, Neville's steps begin to slow, and her own stride falls back to keep in sync. She takes no note of how easily it seems to happen.

"I think that would be a good thing," Neville says on a sigh. "Harry needs someone to balance him and challenge him at the same time. No one's ever seemed to push his buttons like Draco."

Narcissa laughs despite herself. "Yes, Draco can be an acquired taste. But we've both learned over the years to cultivate new interests."

They've almost reached the clearing where the greenhouse stands alone, wide and high among the grounds, and yes, Neville's gait has most certainly faltered. The slow pace gives her more time to realize how solid he is next to her. Solid. Strong. Unyielding.

His head turns to catch her gaze and his eyes glint, even though the sky is overcast.

"And what sort of interests are you cultivating at the moment, Narcissa?"

"Muggle clothes," she blurts out, unable to resist the sparkle of mirth she sees. "Jeans, specifically." She thinks she should be horrified at her own outburst, but Neville chuckles, and the low rumble entreats her traitorous mouth to continue. "And I have a pair of 'flip-flops', I think they're called. They have horrendous little sparkly things all over them." She wrinkles her nose and then smiles. "I absolutely adore them. I think if Draco ever saw them, he'd die of apoplexy."

The chuckles thunders into a full-blown guffaw of delight, and his arm tightens on hers as they reach the greenhouse. "Flip-flops, you say? What would the world think of Lady Malfoy with bare toes and naked ankles?" He leans in. "Scandalous."

The teasing banter is bursting bubbles of stuffy propriety and scattering her inhibitions into the wind like the snowflakes that swirl around them.

"I did tell you we aren't as formal as we used to be."

"So you did." Neville's voice pitches low, and there's a look in his eye that she hasn't seen directed in her way in a very, very long time. "I think I might like to catch a peek of you in your flip-flops sometime."

"If you manage to come back again, I think it just might happen." She thinks it might be the light howl to the wind, but suddenly her ears are buzzing, like the air is whooshing around them in a fury. But the snowflakes still fall softly, and the tree branches in the distance are barely swaying.

"I'll keep that in mind."

They've stopped, and the entrance to the greenhouse is not but inches away.

"Well, here we are," Narcissa says, a little breathless. She exhales softly, partly to steady herself from the chill, and partly to steady herself in general. For some reason, Neville Longbottom has her spinning off-kilter. "Care to take a closer look?"

Neville looks down at her, and this time she's certain. Certain that the interest she sees in his eyes goes beyond what should be considered appropriate. She can feel him beginning to speak even before he does, because the deep intonation hits her chest before his words hit her ears.

"I'll get as close as you'll let me."

Narcissa swallows as her mouth goes dry and her stomach pitches headlong toward her toes. It's a feeling she has to struggle to recognize.

_Merlin_ , she thinks, _does it feel good._

OOOOO

"You're absolute shit at chess, Harry."

The jibe is delivered in Draco's signature drawl with such affront that Harry doubles over in laughter. Two hours and four games of chess later, he's still soaking in every moment in Draco's presence.

"I told you I was two games ago. It's not my fault if you didn't listen."

"I'll never understand how you were able to strategize to win a war and defeat a Dark Lord with an army of children with tactics like these." Draco's tone drips with scorn.

"In all fairness, Ron did a great deal of the strategizing, as it were. I was really just the hired muscle."

"Hired—hired muscle?" Draco huffs in disgust, slumping back in his chair. "Oh, for the love of—"

Draco's words cut off, saving Harry from another scathing remark when the patio doors open and Narcissa and Neville stroll in, arm in arm, pink-cheeked from the cold, heads bent in intimate laughter.

"All is well, I take it?" Harry asks.

"Absolutely. I got a bang-up tour of the greenhouse and took a look at those roses." Neville looks at Narcissa as she disengages to remove her cloak. Draco's there in an instant to take it from her and he drapes it over his arm. "It'll be next week before I can get back, though. I've got some things to finish before term starts back, and I want to do some more research. If that's agreeable, Narcissa?"

Harry catches the underlying depth to Neville's tone and smiles.

"Of course, whenever you can return is fine. Our doors are always open to you, Neville." She holds out her hand in a formal gesture of goodbye.

Harry watches Draco's eyebrows shoot into his hairline as Neville takes his mother's delicate hand and presses a soft kiss to the back.

"It was a pleasure. I'll call on you soon."

The high color in Narcissa's cheeks softens her features. "I look forward to it."

Neville turns and nods to Draco. "Draco, good to see you." He snags Harry in a one-armed hug as Blinky pops in to show him out. "See you around, Harry."

"Yeah, you too, Nev."

When Harry looks back, Narcissa is gliding out of the room, a shy smile fixed upon her upturned lips.

Draco is frozen in place. "That's—that's my mother."

"Yes," Harry agrees, waiting to see how this plays out.

"And that's—that's Neville Longbottom."

"Yes."

Draco shakes his head and turns a bewildered and slightly nauseous face to Harry. "I don't think you saw what I just saw," he says, not without a touch of childish disdain.

"Oh, I saw it," Harry replies with a chuckle.

The indignant splutter that forces its way from Draco's mouth is loud in the open air. "And just what am I supposed to do about _this_?" he cries, flinging a hand in the direction of his departed mother.

"Same thing I'm going to do, I suppose."

"Which is?" Draco is incensed.

Harry's grin is wide and full of teeth. "Sit back and enjoy the show."


	13. Chapter 13

In retrospect, Draco thinks a week really isn't that long. However, it's been a week to the day since Harry Potter dropped in and turned everything upside down. It's altogether maddening, and Draco's quite at sixes and sevens over the whole situation. Harry and his presence. Harry and his eyes. Harry and that damned domineering confidence. It's enough to drive anyone spare. It's enough to make Draco rethink the trajectory of his life. Or the course of his wants. He admits he's resigned himself to self-imposed celibacy. Because his experiences have not matched up to the needs of his soul. And now here's Harry, telling Draco he can have it all. It's ridiculous.

Isn't it?

"Come in here before you wear a hole in the carpet," Narcissa's voice calls out from the cracked door of her room, chiding but gentle.

Draco steps inside and finds his mother relaxing with a book and a cup of tea. She's in her dressing gown, hair soft around her shoulders, slippered feet tucked up beneath her in the overstuffed chair. He lets out a breath. It's rare she lets him see her like this, unfettered and real. This is the mother of his childhood, when it was all hushed endearments, soothing hugs, and soft smiles.

She sets her book to the side and pats the cushion next to her. "Tell me."

Draco sits and huffs. "There's nothing to tell."

Her mouth trips into a wry smile. "Liar. This is about Harry, isn't it?"

"Why do you think it's about Harry?" He wants to wince at the childish defiance in his tone.

"Because, my love," she says knowingly, "hasn't it always been about Harry?"

He glares in response. "That's not fair. There were several years of my life where Harry Potter didn't play a starring role, thank you very much."

"I know, and it ended up sending you to Switzerland. And I think we can both agree that was a mistake."

Draco sighs and throws his head back. "Harry Potter had nothing to do with my choice to see Blaise."

He can feel her stiffen beside him at the use of Blaise's name. His mother hates Blaise. Has always hated Blaise. Even in school. _With good reason_ , his brain supplies.

"Not directly, no. You were looking for something. Something that had been missing since he first spurned your hand. It colored a great deal of your relationships after that."

"Please stop analyzing me," he groans.

She pats him on the knee. "You're the one doing the pacing."

Her face is open and quiet, like it always is when he comes to her in these moments. She is the bedrock of his life, the one constant through the squall of war and the hell of aftermath.

"I don't know what to do," he says, not knowing what else to say.

"What do you _want_ to do?"

"It's not that simple, Mother." Draco shakes his head and leans forward, casting his eyes to the floor.

"What does Harry want?"

And damned if that isn't the million-Galleon question. What's worse is that he knows the answer. He turns his head to the side to look at her.

"He wants everything." The words fall heavy from his mouth, and Draco's a little amazed he didn't hear them thunk onto the rug.

Narcissa pulls in a deep breath and leans over to place her hand on his shoulder. "Well, then. How fortunate that's exactly what you have to give him."

"How can you say that?" Draco hisses, jumping to his feet and turning to glower down at her. "How can you advocate for this?" He hears his voice strangling higher, but he doesn't care. Narcissa's face goes from calm to shocked to glaring in the space of a second. "How can you tell me to give everything I am to _him_? To give him that kind of dominion over me? To hand a man like that this kind of power?"

"And what about Blaise, hm?" his mother shoots back, sliding from her chair in an angry swish of silver satin to stand before him. "You fell into his bed knowing what sort of lover he was."

Draco's seeing red and he spits, "Yes, and as soon as I realized it would never make me happy, I left. I didn't care for him. Blaise is nothing compared to Harry! Harry—Harry could _destroy_ me! What makes you think he won't?"

Narcissa holds her chin high, managing to look down on him even though he's a head taller. "Because Harry is powerful. He will always be powerful. Do you forget that he held the fate of our world in his hands? Do you forget that he could have become twice the Dark Lord Voldemort was? Harry is an extraordinary man without equal. All that power he holds in his hands, and what did he do with it?" Her stare is unwavering, as is the command in her voice. " _He saved us all._ "

The fact is so bracing, Draco has to turn away, as if he can escape the memory it dredges up. Fear, thick and cloying, like the smoke of Fiendfyre.

"That is the kind of man who is worth your everything. That is kind of man who is worth my son." She steps forward to cradle his face in her hands. Her fingers brush the fringe back from his eyes, and he looks into her face to see a wanting sadness there. "Listen to me, Draco. You can trust Harry. He values the things and people that are important to him. He will honor you, in your bedroom and out. He wants a partner, above all else. He will want you to stand beside him, not behind him. Because _he_ will stand beside _you_. There's something missing in his life that has seen fit to bring him to us. To you." Her hands are warm on his skin, and Draco can feel the heat pressing into his bones like her words are pressing into his ears. "He is not complete. And neither are you. But you could be, my darling. Be the half that makes him whole."

In his heart, Draco knows his mother is right. He isn't complete, and neither is Harry. They're circling around something close to completion, but Draco is too scared to breach the wall and make a grab for it. Because his life is as empty and as hollow as an open grave. But it's easy, and boring, and doesn't carry with it the sort of soul-shattering disappointment he knows he might find tied to the end of Harry's bedpost.

Then there's the Manor, pushing Harry into a place he, quite honestly, is more entitled to than Draco. And he thinks that maybe the Manor didn't bring Harry here for Harry's sake. Maybe the Manor brought Harry here for his own.

To reach for Harry is to reach for his own happiness. On whatever terms Harry sees fit. Draco has to either accept that, and place all his trust in Harry, or live with the regret he knows will certainly follow if he doesn't.

Narcissa pulls him in tight for a hug, wrapping her arms around him in comfort. He sags in the embrace, knowing she's always been strong enough to hold him up at his worst. It is one of her most defining qualities.

She steps back and runs her fingers over his face once more with a sigh. "Draco, there is nothing I want more in this world than your happiness. Don't let your fear keep you from it."

Draco takes her hands in his and raises them to his lips, pressing a soft kiss on the backs. "Thank you, Mother."

Narcissa pushes him toward the door with a soft smile on her lips. "Go to him. Trust him."

Draco's feet send him out into the hallway. He has no idea where Harry is at the moment, but his feet are moving along the carpet in a stride just short of a jog, propelled by the tingle of an unseen hand. Suddenly, he's outside the studio. He raps twice on the door and waits for the sound of Harry's voice.

He's going to be doing a lot of that from now on.


	14. Chapter 14

Harry hears the knock at the door, but doesn't look away from the easel. "Come."

The door opens and Draco strides into the room on purposeful feet, shoes tapping lightly on the wooden floor. "I'm not disturbing you, am I?"

Harry throws a sheet over the easel and swivels in the chair to face him. "Of course not. I was just finishing up for the night."

"I wondered if I might have a moment of your time."

Draco's face is set in determination, hands held close at his side.

_He's made a decision._

"I always have time for you, Draco." It comes out far lower than he intended, and Draco's eyes dilate at the silky undertone.

"You said before that I should consider seeing a Mind Healer."

Harry rests his hands on his knees as Draco begins a slow, pacing circle about the room. "If that's what you need, then yes."

"I've already seen one," Draco replies, glancing around at the walls in no particular fashion. "When I came back from Switzerland. It was," he pauses, "necessary at the time."

"I see."

Draco continues on his aimless journey, but never gets really far. He's not more than five feet away from Harry at any given point.

"I was low, lower than I have ever been, even after the war, when I came back. My head was in all sorts of places, and I admit to…unhealthy ways of coping."

Harry swivels in his chair to keep his eyes on Draco's face. "Unhealthy?"

"Mindless sex." Draco waves a dismissive hand in the air. "More of the same I experienced with Blaise. Ruthless Doms, violent ones. Some Muggle drugs. Potions, too. Those four months after my return are a bit of a blur. But I realized I needed help, so I went to a Mind Healer. Very discreet. Ravenclaw. It was very therapeutic. I learned a lot about myself. And I vowed never to get into a situation like that again." He stops and shoots Harry a sad smile. "If only for Mother's sake."

Harry nods. "Yes, I can imagine she was quite distressed."

"Distressed?" Draco half-laughs. "She was absolutely livid with me for being an idiot. She warned me about Blaise in the first place, but I was just out of prison, Father had died, our reputation was in shambles, and we were scraping by on our last galleon. Admittedly, I didn't intend to fall into bed with Blaise. I went to Switzerland for the purpose of rebuilding the family wealth. I thought Blaise would merely be the cherry on the sundae." He lowers his gaze to the floor and shakes his head. "I was wrong."

Draco continues on his trek around the studio, glancing at Harry out of the corner of his eye every now and then. Harry keeps circling on the chair, tracking his every movement.

"I know you seem to think that I was embroiled in some sort of domestic violence, and in hindsight, yes, it was. But not to the degree you're thinking. I wanted what he offered. I thought it was what I needed. I thought I needed to be punished, and Blaise wanted someone to punish." His gaze flicks to Harry and he smiles. "It should have been the perfect arrangement. But you see, Blaise only unleashed himself in the bedroom. Outside of that, we were the typical pure-blood couple. Poised, driven, socially desirable in certain circles. My name still carried more weight than his in society, much like it had in school. His inferiority complex is truly breathtaking." Draco sighs and puts his hands in his pockets, craning his neck back to look at the ceiling. "The bedroom was the only place he could take out his jealousy and berate me for my standing. And I let him."

Draco is silent for a moment, his brows are furrowed, and Harry can almost see the words tumbling around in his head.

"Everything that happened between us was consensual. Soberly and knowingly consensual. I took it because I thought I deserved it. His sin was my atonement."

"Draco—"

He holds up a hand. "Please let me finish. If I don't say this now, I don't think I'll have the courage again."

Harry nods and Draco continues.

"Blaise was my first experience with this kind of relationship, and I was ignorant to some of the forms it can take. I—I have a need to submit, I know that now. And I know that it comes from a different place than I originally thought. I sought men who were like Blaise, terrible and cruel, because I thought that's how Doms are. I didn't think the way I needed to submit would ever be in line with any Dom's need to control. And once I was in a place to make a better decision, it wasn't worth the effort involved to try to find someone who could fit my needs. And then you drop in here and all the memories come flooding back, and I find myself responding to you. Good and bad."

Draco stops pacing and walks closer to Harry, stopping in front of him. His eyes are sad, a little bright, and utterly beautiful. "I've had nothing but pain and humiliation with this type of relationship. I've been disappointed and hurt. And for a long time I thought I would rather be alone that have to endure that again. And you say that it's real, what I want. That I can give you control and let myself go. Let myself feel. Because that's what I need. I have been raised to maintain control of myself my entire life. To be in control of every situation, every outcome. To have the advantage, no matter what it takes. To always wear a mask of superiority and never show my true feelings." Draco averts his gaze and swallows, steeling himself. When he looks back to Harry, he says, "Emotions are sometimes uncomfortable for me. It makes me feel vulnerable and a Malfoy is _never_ vulnerable."

Harry hears Lucius Malfoy's voice in Draco's tone.

"Blaise wanted more than I could provide, and he wanted something completely different. He is a sadist, through and through. While I— _I_ am no masochist." Draco takes in a deep breath, and his gaze flickers across Harry's face. "He wanted something without bounds, someone he could debase and degrade to no end. No limits. And I couldn't stomach that, not with his intentions."

There's a banked fire in the corner of Harry's heart, one that's been put aside to be forgotten. Draco's admission has funneled oxygen into it, enlarging it, spreading it out, and now it's creeping across his bones in a white-hot burn. Draco is _wrong_. So very, very wrong. Because what Harry sees in front of him is not a man with conditions. Draco is not a man who will be bound by reservation. He is not a man who will thrive under the oppression of his own fear.

Harry's voice is firm. "We will have no boundaries. We will go where you have never been before. And then we will go farther. We will be _limitless_."

"Harry—"

Harry shakes his head and smiles as he stands, placing himself directly in front of Draco. He feels the heat from Draco's body, gets a nose full of his aftershave. Draco swallows, but stands his ground.

"I'm not going to throw you into the deep end of the pool and watch drown, Draco. There is an order to be observed, and we will observe it. If you can trust me, there is nothing we can't do. I want this relationship, and I want you. It's your choice."

Draco inhales sharply and huffs out through his nose. "Then I choose yes. I choose to commit myself into your hands."

"Completely?"

"Completely. I am yours." Draco's eyes cut into his so fiercely, Harry has to clench his fists to keep from dragging Draco to his chest. "So bind me. Bleed me. Or break me."

Harry leans in and savors the moist heat of Draco's breath on his cheek as he says, "I don't want to break you, Draco. I want to set you free."

"Then do it. Because I can't go on like this. Not anymore."

Harry steps back and gives him a thorough perusal. When he finds his voice, he puts every last inch of steel into it.

"Tomorrow night. My room. Nine o'clock."

"Yes, Harry."

Harry watches him turn and walk away. Gone is the defeated slump Harry's been accustomed to seeing on Draco's shoulders. Just as he's about to cross the threshold, Harry calls after him, "I'll be waiting. Don't be late."

Draco swivels to face him and Harry can see a light in his eyes. "A Malfoy is always punctual." The little grin that slides across his lips makes Harry want to tackle him and fuck him into the floor. "Especially when he's the guest of honor."

Harry smirks in spite of himself. "Goodnight, Draco."

"Goodnight, Harry."

When the door shuts, Harry sucks in a harsh breath and adjusts the erection that's been insistent in his jeans.

_Yes. Limitless._


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really...we're getting closer. I promise. Really.

Harry ties the promised letter for Ron and Hermione to Pennywort's outstretched leg, pulling his fingers back in time to avoid being bitten—again. She's an adorable, spotted little thing with an unfortunate tendency to nip if the stroking isn't hard enough to her liking. A tad on the puffy side, she's squat with big moon eyes that look up at Harry with equal parts adoration and irritation. She's sweet enough, if a bit beaky, but she's a Malfoy owl, and Harry supposes that makes her high-maintenance on general principle. He looks into her eyes and purposefully doesn't think about Hedwig. He can never replace her, not ever, but he does think it's possibly time to consider her successor.

He makes his way to the dining room (he's late for breakfast—again), when he spies Draco just about to enter himself. Draco stops and appraises him as Harry approaches.

"Good morning, Harry." It might be his imagination, but Draco's standing a bit taller, as if there was nothing in the world to weigh him down.

"Morning, yourself. I hope your Mother won't be offended that I'm late. I sent off a letter to Ron and Hermione this morning. Much thanks for the use of the owl, by the way."

"I don't think she'll be too upset. She dotes on you, you know." Draco's smile is soft. "And she's not my owl. She's yours."

Harry's brows furrow and he shakes his head. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Draco explains, "that I bought her for you. That first night you arrived. Mother attended to your chambers and wardrobe, and I procured Pennywort on the off chance you wanted an owl of your own for private correspondence. She's rather special."

"She is," Harry says fondly. "It's a little bittersweet for me. After I lost Hedwig, I never bought another. Couldn't stand to. Hedwig meant too much to me."

Draco's eyes are bright and shining and he steps forward, bringing his body perilously close to Harry's. "I knew that. And that's what makes Pennywort so special. I acquired her from Hedwig's breeder."

Harry feels part of his face go slack. Draco's words are implying something, yet Harry can't fathom what he's hearing. "Wh—what are you saying?"

Draco's voice rumbles with pride, "She is from the same line. Pennywort is related, albeit a bit distantly, to your Hedwig. That's why I chose her." He's grinning now, pleased with himself, and by Merlin, Harry is pleased with him as well. "Plus, she's absolutely precious. Even if she bites."

"I'm enamoured of her already," Harry replies. The warmth he feels inside seeps out into his tone. "Thank you, Draco. It means more than you know."

Draco's eyelashes flutter and he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. "Anything to be in your good graces, sir."

Harry sucks in a breath and his groin tightens. Draco's absolutely coquettish, and instead of it being simpering and annoying, it's incredibly arousing. Partly because Draco is gorgeous, and partly because Harry thinks he actually means it. He's not above a bit of flirting, not when he knows he's going to have Draco naked and panting in a few hours. Harry leans in and whispers huskily in his ear, "Draco Malfoy, are you trying to seduce your Master?"

Draco's grin is as bright as sunshine. "Maybe."

"You cheeky git."

His eyebrow quirks and Draco replies soberly, "I am still me, Harry."

"Praise Merlin," Harry breathes out. "I don't want you to ever lose who you are." He sniffs and stands back. "Now let's get something to eat. I'm starving."

When they enter, Harry is surprised to see Neville chatting quietly over breakfast with Narcissa. His eyes automatically go to Draco to appraise his reaction. His step falters a bit, nothing more. He greets his mother with an affectionate kiss to the cheek and his words for Neville are reserved, but filled with genuine warmth.

Draco takes his seat at the table, and as Harry nears the head, the chair scoots back, causing Neville's fork to stop mid-way to his mouth. He blinks twice and then shoots Harry a sly grin. "Well, that's interesting," he says with a quirk of an eyebrow.

Harry scoffs as he sits, "Don't even start, Nev."

"Sure thing, Harry," Neville chuckles.

Harry takes a breath and puts his napkin in his lap as Blinky pops in with plates for Draco and himself. He finds Narcissa's gaze over the table. "I suppose this means you and Neville are headed back to the greenhouse today?"

"Yes, Neville says he's done a bit of research, and we're going to delve further into the mystery of my silent roses." Her voice is even, but Harry can see a glimmer of excitement in her eyes.

"Speaking of which, we should get started." Neville sets his napkin on the table and pushes his chair back. He reaches for Narcissa's hand to assist her in rising. "Shall we?"

She smiles, nodding. "Blinky has our coats waiting." They turn and head for the hallway, and Narcissa calls over her shoulder, "Have a lovely day, boys."

Harry sneaks a glance at Draco, expecting to find him fuming at the interaction between Neville and his mother.

"Don't say it," Draco says, mouth in a firm, but resigned line. "I can see it, but perhaps if I ignore it, it will go away." He closes his eyes and sighs. "Yes, that's what's going to happen."

Harry spears at his eggs. "'Fraid not."

Draco groans, and the sound makes the hairs on the back of Harry's neck stand at attention. "We really are going to be overrun with Gryffindors, aren't we?"

"I don't know," Harry says, studying the way Draco's hair is falling softly into his eyes. "Might not be so bad."

Something in his tone gets Draco's attention because his eyes snap to Harry's, heated and full of interest. His lips curl, and it makes the tightness in Harry's groin unravel and snake through to his spine.

"Might not," Draco agrees.

They enjoy their breakfast in relative silence, and are about to part ways when Blinky barrels into the dining room as fast as her little feet can carry her, tripping over the frills on today's sunshiny frock.

"Master Harry! Master Harry!" she huffs breathlessly, "There is being a Weasley Auror—"

Her exclamation cuts off as Harry hears from the hallway, "Harry! Harry! Where the hell are you, mate?" Seconds after Ron's booming shout, he tumbles into the room. Before Harry can utter a word, Ron's got his wand out, trained on Draco, whose eyebrows shoot into his hairline. "Stand back, Malfoy!" Ron shouts. "Just get away from him!"

The moment Harry spies the trajectory of Ron's wand, he places himself in front of Draco. "Have you lost your mind? Put your wand away!"

"It's alright, Harry. I'm here. Come on, I'll call for backup if I need to." Ron's gesturing with his other hand for Harry to move forward.

"Lower your wand, Ron!"

"Has he cursed you? Hexed you?" Ron shakes his head. "Never mind, we'll get you to St. Mungo's, just come on."

Harry takes three good strides until the tip of Ron's wand is embedded in his chest. Ron's eyes go wide and sharp with surprise. "Harry?"

"I swear to Merlin if you don't put that thing away, I will throw you out on your arse!" He leans in to punctuate, "Lower. Your. Fucking. Wand."

Ron's arm drops to his side and he stumbles back, confused. "What—just what the fucking hell, Harry?"

Harry turns back to Draco, who is smiling like this is the best thing he's ever seen. "Would you mind?" he says, jerking his head to the door.

"And miss _this_?" Draco folds his arms over his chest and shakes his head. "Not a chance."

Harry glares at him. "Please, Draco." His tone isn't at all pleading, but it seems to satisfy Draco, who sighs loudly with annoyance.

"Fine."

He steps out from behind Harry and levels a dazzling smile on Ron. "Good to see you, Weasley. Please give my regards to your wife."

"Wh—what?" Ron splutters. "How do you—what, you know Hermione now?"

Draco's laugh is utterly mocking. "Of course I know your wife. I'm a Death Eater with money. And your wife is Undersecretary to the Minister of Finance. Surely your tactical brain can put together how our paths might have crossed."

"You—you've talked to her?" Ron's glaring turns suspicious.

"Talked to her?" Draco scoffs. "We've practically been in each other's pockets the last eight months. She tells me you've been under the weather. Touch of the flu, was it? I daresay you're looking hale and hearty."

Ron goes paler than Harry's ever seen. "How—how did you know about that?"

"It could be because I talk to the woman. We have lunch every other Monday. She handles my Ministry Oversight Portfolio."

Ron looks to Harry. "Did you know about this?"

Harry shakes his head. "Nope. This is the first I'm hearing about it."

"Why do I not know about this?" Ron says, deflated.

"She didn't tell you?" Draco's voice is filled to the brim with sarcastic astonishment. "Can't imagine why."

"Draco," Harry warns. "Stop it."

Draco makes a face at him. "Take all the fun out of it, why don't you?" He wrinkles his nose and sighs. "Alright, I'm leaving." Draco shoots Ron a withering glare in passing. "Welcome to my home, Weasley. Don't fucking touch anything."

"That's enough, Draco."

He waves a hand in the air. "Yes, yes." He pauses, "Oh, and tell Hermione I'll expect an update on the November investment schedule. It's been over a month and Entwhistle is still putting me off, the pedantic bastard. She said it would take two weeks. She owes me a curry."

Draco leaves Ron gaping after him, and Harry runs a hand over his face in consternation. Really, it could have been so much worse.

The doors shut and Ron stammers, "Owes him a—? What the bloody hell just happened?"

Harry frowns, grabs Ron by the arm, and shoves him into the adjacent sitting room, pushing him toward the sofa. "Get in here, you idiot." Ron falls into the cushions and levels Harry with a stare. "Don't look at me like that. You came barging into someone's home and started waving your wand about. You're in the wrong here."

"It's _Malfoy_ ," Ron hisses in return.

"I don't give a shit who the fuck it is," Harry spits back, getting in Ron's face. "What the hell do you think you were doing, pointing your wand at Draco? You're an Auror, for fuck's sake!"

"Draco? Draco?" Ron coughs. "It's fucking Malfoy, and I'll point my—" Ron's eyes go wide like saucers, like he's just discovered something monumentally important. "Merlin's left nut, you're shagging him, aren't you?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but no, no I'm not."

_Not yet._

"But you want to," Ron says, scrutinizing him with a squint. "I knew he was always a poncy git, but I didn't think he was, you know, _your sort_."

Harry growls at the implication. "Be careful, Ron. You're treading dangerously close to insulting."

Ron waves him off. "Oh, hell, Harry, you know what I mean."

"Still doesn't make it anything but rude." He steps back, crosses his arms over his chest and glares. "I'd like to know what possessed you to come here."

"What was I supposed to do?" Ron throws exasperated hands into the air. "I mean, you tell us you'll owl, and we don't hear from you, you're not at home, you don't have an office anymore—Circe's tits, man, you practically disappear, and I find out you're here, of all places!" His eyes go soft around the edges, and Harry sees the long-time friend lurking beneath. "Christ," he mutters, "I thought something had honestly happened to you. I wasn't going to stand for it. You should know that by now."

"And you should know by now that I can take care of myself. My letter was specific on the point that _I am fine_." He grinds out the last three words just to see Ron shrink. It always takes beating him over the head with the obvious to make a point. It's Ron's way, and Harry knows it, but he doesn't have to be happy about it. "You could have owled, or firecalled, or I don't know," Harry's voice drips with sarcasm, "knocked on the fucking door like a normal person."

Ron's sheepish frown takes over the whole of his face. "Alright, alright, I'm sorry, yeah?" He fidgets under Harry's stare.

Something suddenly occurs to Harry, and his arms fall to his sides. "She doesn't know you're here, does she?"

He can see the moment it clicks into place for Ron, because his eyes grow wide and terrified, and his mouth falls open on a gasp. "Merlin, she's going to kill me, isn't she?"

Harry raises an eyebrow and nods in response. "Once she knows you barreled in here like a bat out of hell, flinging your wand in someone's home, someone she apparently knows rather well, I'd say yeah, you're in the shit."

"Well, you're not going to tell her, are you?" Ron looks deeply concerned. He should be.

"I'm not going to lie for you, but I won't offer it up, either."

Ron sags against the sofa, exhaling sharply. "Thanks, mate."

"But I can guarantee that Draco will," Harry replies. "He'll have no compunction about telling Hermione about your little visit, and will probably elaborate on the degree of your stupidity. It will amuse him greatly."

"Oh, fuck me. I'm dead." Ron buries his face in his hands.

"Not if you tell her first. Which I would. As soon as possible."

Ron nods. "You're right. The little shit will make it worse than it is." He grimaces. "Bastard."

Harry only smiles at that, because Ron's probably right. He doesn't think Draco will lie, but he certainly won't paint Ron's outburst as misguided loyalty, either.

Ron's finger waggles in the air. "I can see it on your face. You may not be shagging him, but by Merlin, you want to." He narrows his eyes. "In fact, you're probably planning on it."

"Again, none of your business."

Ron goes quiet, watching Harry with focused intent. His Auror face. He's calculating, deducing. Coming to a conclusion.

"I'm going to have to get used to staring at his pointy face for the rest of my life, aren't I? Because this is different. You're different. He's not some bloke you picked up, like Owen. I think you've been waiting for this. Waiting for Malfoy. But you didn't know it, not until now."

It's scary how perceptive Ron really is. It's what makes him so good at his job, Harry thinks. He doesn't have to expound on it, but he doesn't have to deny it, either.

"I don't know," Harry says. "But the possibility is there, so yes, for the time being, attempt to acclimate yourself."

"But it's _Malfoy_!" Ron whines, as if the statement explains everything.

"No," Harry says firmly, walking up to Ron. "He's Draco. And you're Ron, and I'm Harry, and the war—the war is fucking over. We've all moved on in every other way. Let this one go, too. For me."

Ron stands and looks him in the eye. "Fine. If that's what you want, fine." He grumbles under his breath. "Better than Owen Redfield at any rate."

Harry frowns in question.

"Oh, come on. You know we all hated Owen. Even Seamus hated him, and Seamus likes everybody." Ron sighs. "You're staying, aren't you?"

"Yes."

Ron gives him a long, searching look before stepping back. "Okay. I'll deal with this. I don't have to like it, but I can deal with it. I can handle Malfoy." Ron sticks out his hand. "No hard feelings?"

Harry grabs it and pulls him into a hug. "No, you daft git. But you will owe Draco an apology." Ron huffs and nods. "A sincere one."

A begrudging noise that sounds like 'fine' comes out of Ron's mouth.

"Go home. Talk to Hermione before Draco does."

"Okay, okay," he says, sidestepping Harry, "but if I turn up missing, then know she's killed me and disposed of the body."

Harry grins. "I'll make sure Kingsley launches a full-scale investigation."

He calls for Blinky, and she escorts Ron out of the room. He collapses onto the sofa and rubs a tired hand over his face. It'll take Ron a bit, but he'll come around. He usually does. A smile plays at the edge of lips. He hopes that Ron doesn't run into Neville anytime soon and ask him what _he's_ been up to. Because Neville is as honest as the day is long, and Harry thinks that particular truth just might send Ron round the twist. At the thought, Harry throws back his head and dissolves into furious snickers.


	16. Chapter 16

Neville's talking about soil aeration, but Narcissa can't bring herself to listen. Instead, she's focused on the way their arms are entwined, and the way his left hand is covering hers in the crook of his elbow. His thumb is rubbing absently across the back of her hand as he goes on, and she realizes that he's the first man to touch her in a way that isn't within the bounds of polite propriety in _decades_.

They reach the greenhouse and shut themselves inside, and Neville kicks the dusting of snow from his boots. He takes off the heavy overcoat and drapes over the high-backed bench, digging his gloves and a small leather pack from one of its pockets.

"I'm going to test the nutrient levels in the soil and start from there."

She nods, divesting herself of snow as well. He's turned away from her, kneeling down to dig around in the soil at the base of the rosebushes, and she takes the opportunity to slip off her shoes. She wiggles her toes in the warm grass and pulls two items out of her own coat pocket. She places her coat next to Neville's and drops her items on the ground.

When Neville turns around again, his mouth falls open before transforming into a wide smile.

"You did say they were sparkly."

She holds out a flip-flop covered foot. "I did."

Narcissa has a moment where she doesn't quite know what to do with her hands, so she settles for resting them on her hips. Neville's gaze is like a ray of warm sunshine, and it bathes her from head to toe.

"I've never seen jeans and flip-flops look so sophisticated," he says. "The t-shirt is a nice touch. Green. How Slytherin."

She plucks at the soft cotton. "It's comfortable," she insists. "Perfect for a morning getting dirty."

He steps closer and the scent of his aftershave mingles with the fresh, grassy scent of the greenhouse. It's grounding and heavy, and she feels as though her feet are rooted where she stands. Like the two of them are connected to the earth, bound to this space.

"This look suits you," he says. "With your hair unbound, relaxed in comfortable clothing. You look like you belong here, among living things, things that will blossom and grow. Not inside that huge old house, persisting like a museum piece."

She chuckles. "I'm old enough to be a museum piece."

Neville shakes his head, and the back of his hand comes up to brush against her cheek. Her breath catches as he says, "No, you're no relic. Those are nothing but dead history, frozen in time, recorded in memory. You're still vibrant and alive, and your history is still being written."

Narcissa steps back and averts her eyes. "You're far too generous with your praise."

"There's nothing generous about the truth."

She chances a glance upwards and sees the conviction sparkling in Neville's eyes, and it warms her, down to her toes.

There's a definite pause in the air, but the spell is broken as he tugs on his gloves and grins. "I should get to work. See what's really at the root of the problem."

She settles herself onto the bench, prepared to watch as he turns around and kneels in front of the bed of rosebushes. "If anyone can do it, Neville, I think it's you."

He smiles over his shoulder. "Now who's generous with the praise?"

Narcissa laughs in spite of herself.

Neville is quiet for the better part of an hour, taking the utmost care with the bushes as he combs the soil and takes samples, waving his wand as he performs some intricate diagnostic spells. She thinks maybe he's forgotten her presence altogether, when he asks, "Are you happy, Narcissa?"

He hasn't moved to look at her. His focus is still on the flowers.

"Happy?"

"Yes. It's an easy question." His head nods, punctuating, "Are. You. Happy?"

Happy? Happiness is an emotion that's been gone off her path for so long she can scarcely remember what it feels like. Survival has been the cornerstone of her existence. And now that the war is over, it seems like far too much to even hope for. If anything, survival has dimmed to a low pulse of getting by, and even then, it's something that's beyond her reach.

"I—I don't know," she says. "Why do you ask?"

He turns and sits cross-legged on the grass, facing her. "Do you transplant your cuttings from here to the garden by magic or by hand?"

Narcissa's brows knit together at the change of subject. "By magic, of course. I don't understand, what does that have to do with my being happy?"

Neville's head tilts to the side, appraising her with a single glance. "These are magical plants. When you use magic on them, a bit of your magical signature rubs off them, like a residue. It clings to the very core of the plant and mingles with its inherent magic. And Trilling Roses are very susceptible to the emotions of their caretaker. They feed, in part, off your energy. So when you use your magic on them, it seeps in, and those emotions are fed to the plant." His voice drops. "Narcissa, if you're not happy, the plants will feel it. They'll know. And they will respond, or not, in kind."

"So you're saying this is my fault?" Her voice sounds defensive and petulant, and she mentally chastises herself for letting it show.

"No," he replies with a smile. "I'm saying that if you want these flowers to thrive, then you need to find what makes you happy. Or else you'll be resorting to digging in the dirt with the rest of us."

She can't help the lift of her chin. "I'm not above getting dirty."

"What I'm saying is that you don't have to. Maybe I can help." With that, he turns back around and gives the bushes his full attention.

And if she feels like she's lost something when he does, she pushes it to the back of her mind.

OOOOO

Hours later, the sunlight is high overhead, streaming down into the greenhouse, and even with cooling charms, the heat is noticeable.

What's even more noticeable is the fine sheen of sweat glistening on Neville's brow and arms as he works diligently in the flowerbeds. His jeans are covered in light layer of soil, especially the backs of his thighs where he's absently been wiping his gloves every so often. She's trying not stare at the tight stretch of denim across his lower half, but between the heat and his position on the ground, his clothes are stuck to him like a second skin. It's a shocking revelation, but the man has a truly spectacular arse.

It's hard enough to keep her thoughts straight in the hot heaviness of the air, much less without having to stare at his perfectly-shaped backside. His shirt clings to the toned musculature of his back and upper arms, leaving no doubt that he keeps himself in shape. The white cotton t-shirt is damp in patches where the heat has gotten to him as well, and the hem has risen with his movements to settle just above his waistband, revealing a dark, inky something against the tan of his skin.

It only takes a moment for her to realize what she's seeing. She doesn't hear the gasp leave her mouth, but Neville does, shooting a glance over his shoulder. "What is it?" When she doesn't reply, he pulls himself upright. "Narcissa?"

"Is that—is that a tattoo?"

He raises his arms and cranes his neck around to where her eyes are focused. "Oh, my back? Yes, it's a tattoo."

"Of what?" she asks before she can stop herself.

He waves off the question. "It's just something I got after the war. I wanted a reminder of how much I'd changed."

She sits up straighter, letting her feet fall from the bench where she'd been half-reclined to the ground. "May I see?" It's a forward question, and she feels off-kilter for even asking, but off-kilter seems to be the norm whenever Neville's around. It's certainly something personal she would never ask anyone else.

He stands up and faces her. "If you're sure. This can't be appropriate. I wouldn't want to offend."

"I have seen a shirtless man before."

Neville lets out a deprecating laugh. "I'm sorry, of course you have. You're married."

Her lips curl on a slow smile. "Correction: I am widowed. And I wasn't talking about Lucius."

She knows the words are bold, and she says them with confidence. After all, she wears boldness and confidence like a mantle, but she feels them now not because she has to be, but because she wants to.

The smile slides from his lips and he looks her over with a hungry, roving gaze. A pregnant second passes before he whips the shirt off over his head, tossing it to the ground with little ceremony. She registers the wide expanse of muscled chest and the tangy scent of salt and earth before he turns to give her full view of what she asked for.

She staggers back a step because what she is looking at is nothing short of overwhelming. There, big as life in front of her eyes, is the Sword of Gryffindor, indelibly marked on his skin. It starts at his neck, with the ruby red cabochon of the pommel and continues as the grip follows down the long column of his neck, spreading out into the cross guards that span his shoulders. The blade itself spears down, long and piercing, stopping just above the base of his spine. It's full color, and stands out against the rich tan of his skin. Down the center of the blade, she makes out the word 'chrysalis', and the tip of the last 's' curls into the shape of a butterfly.

Narcissa's hand lifts of its own volition and she finds herself tracing the ink with a reverent finger, because she's never ever experienced anything this visceral outside Draco's birth. Nothing that has ever made her want to touch and keep touching, until the feeling is soaked into her fingertips and fused with her blood.

He doesn't flinch at her touch, not until she reaches the tip of the sword, and even then it's only a sharp intake of breath. His skin is warm, so warm, and her finger slides easily, aided by the thin coating of clean sweat.

She can't take her eyes off it. It's like the object and the image can't be disconnected in her mind. It is beauty, elegant and finely crafted. It's hard steel, fierce and arrogant. And even though it is static, it is _magical_.

He turns, and her hand falls away. She can feel the heat in her cheeks, and she knows she must be flushed. They're so close, almost touching, and if he takes a deep breath, they will collide. Her head tilts back automatically in order to look properly at his face.

Neville's eyes are stormy and bright, and he's staring down at her like she's the only thing in the world worth his attention. She opens her mouth to speak, but his hands clamp down on her upper arms, and he slams her against his body as his mouth claims hers in a kiss that whites out her vision.

It's volatile, unstable and terrifying, this feeling that's coursing through her. An onslaught of sensory input that she's not equipped to handle at the moment. Maybe she never has been, because no man has ever kissed her like this. Not even Lucius in his most passionate moments, which were few and far between and rarely ever meant for her specifically.

Neville's mouth is hot and wet and altogether delicious. The stubble on his cheek is scraping, but it only makes her come alive. Every nerve is being awakened, roused into life in this trial by fire. She thought that maybe there would be a slow burn between them, but she never expected _this_.

At the first press of his tongue, she opens, because she has no choice but to let him in. He plunders, takes, demands. But at the same time, he's giving, sharing, and offering. His hands come up to tangle in her hair, and she clutches at him for support. She could kiss him like this for days, for years, forever.

The thought is sobering and her hands give a tiny push against his biceps. His hold relaxes and he gently sets them apart. His dark eyes are glittering with arousal. His lips are full, slick, and red. He is so young, so handsome, and she _wants_.

"I guess I'm helping already," he says, mouthing against her lips.

She licks at them, chasing his taste. "Wh—what makes you say that?"

"Because," he chuckles, biting down on her bottom lip hard enough to make her gasp, "your roses are trilling."


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting so patiently. I'm just going to leave this right here.

At the knock of the door, Harry casts a quick Tempus. One minute until nine.

_Good boy._

He pads to the door, bare feet slapping lightly on the floor. When he opens it, Draco is there, looking freshly showered and remarkably calm.

"Please, come in," he says, gesturing Draco in with a hand.

Draco steps quietly into the room, and Harry takes the moment to assess his demeanor. The calmness he sees is pleasant and a little surprising; after all, a tiny part of him expected Draco to walk in here like a man on his way to his own execution. But in a way, maybe it is. Maybe Draco is resigned to let his experiences of the past die tonight. Harry thinks he's been an executioner once, and if it means getting Draco right where he wants him, he's happy to do it again. Only this time, he feels honored, not obligated.

Draco is dressed impeccably in a crisp, emerald green button-down and black bespoke trousers. No fraying hems to be seen. It makes him wonder about the trousers from before. Draco has money, there's no denying that fact, so it's a curious thing for him to be lounging about in clothes long past their prime. If he knows Draco, and Harry's beginning to think he really does, he's certain there's some sort of self-flagellation involved. Draco is a martyr to his guilt. Blaise Zabini is the glaring proof.

Draco says nothing, merely lets his gaze linger on the comforts of Harry's room, taking in the low lights and fire crackling in the hearth. His eyes skim over the bed and then return to it, falling there for a second or two before his head swivels around to look at Harry and subject him to the same gentle scrutiny.

Harry inhales deeply, trying hard not to look like a puffed-up peacock, but honestly, there's so much pride and confidence rushing through him he thinks he might burst. He knows what he looks like, black trousers and bare feet, a tailored blue shirt with the cuffs rolled up to the elbow. Elegant, but at ease, as if there's nothing in the world that can trouble him at this moment. And frankly, unless another Dark Lord suddenly rises to power in the next twenty minutes, there isn't. Even then, Harry thinks as Draco's tongue darts out to moisten his lips, it's iffy.

"Where would you like me, Harry?"

_Naked. Begging for me._

"You're fine where you are," Harry replies, moving toward him.

Draco's hands reach for the buttons on his shirt, but Harry intervenes.

"Not yet," he says firmly. He's pleased to see Draco's hands fall to his sides and slide around to the small of his back. He doesn't need to look to know they're clasped together properly. The blood rushes to his cock and Harry takes a step back to gather his faculties.

He blinks twice, steadying himself before continuing. "There are a few things I want to get straight, so there's little doubt as to what you can expect." Harry flicks his gaze over Draco. "Tonight is about obedience and trust. I trust that you will obey, and you will trust that I will not push you beyond your capabilities. There is much we have to learn about each other, and that's not going to happen if we rush things. Understand?"

"Yes, Harry." Draco's eyes drift downward.

"You may look at me." Draco's lashes flutter as his eyes find Harry's. "Unless otherwise directed, you always have my permission to look at me. In fact, I encourage it." He leans in. "I want you to see what you do to me. What effect you have on me."

Draco nods, keeping his focus on Harry.

"You mentioned that you do not like humiliation. Neither do I, so be assured that is something that I will not pursue. How are you with pain?"

Draco shifts slightly on his feet before answering, "I do not wish to be injured, Sir."

"Other than that?" Harry prompts.

"Then," Draco's head tilts to the side, "pain is acceptable."

"Toys and apparatus? Providing they fall within your limits?"

Draco inhales and lets out a slow breath, "Acceptable."

"Bondage? Restraints?"

Harry's cock jumps in his trousers as Draco's eyes widen and he swallows.

"Yes, Harry."

"Do you like that? Being restrained?" Harry asks, pitching his voice low.

Draco nods again, mouth working, but no sound emerges.

The smile that crosses his face is sly, almost predatory. "What else do you like, Draco?"

Draco's breath is coming in short, small pants now, and his eyes are glittering. "Praise, Sir."

Harry sucks in a deep lungful of air and puts his mouth next to Draco's ear, letting his breath tickle over the appendage. He soaks in Draco's tremor with an internal groan. "Oh, I don't think that's going to be a problem. You're going to be so good for me, aren't you?" he purrs.

Draco stiffens, not in fear, but because Harry thinks if he didn't, he'd collapse to the floor in a puddle. He makes another mental tick in head beside 'bondage'. Yes, praise definitely won't be a problem.

Harry's head is swimming now with all the possibilities that are open to him, with all the ways that he and Draco can come together. It's a bit dizzying, and altogether perfect, and Harry reels against the thought. It's more than he ever could have hoped for.

"Do you have a safeword?"

Draco blinks, startled. "I—I never—"

Harry knows it's foolish to think that all traces of Blaise's influence would be gone by this point in time. It's something they're going to have to work through, little by little, and some hesitance is expected. But this is how they will build trust. And Harry's not cruel enough to chastise him for it right now.

He takes a quick breath and stares deeply into Draco's eyes, willing him to listen. "You have to trust me. When I ask you if you have a safeword, it's because I intend to honor it, should you ever need it. I won't ignore it or disregard it. I can't. That's not the kind of man I am. And that's not the kind of relationship we will have. You will be able to trust me with this."

Draco's head jerks in a quick nod. "Yes—I'm sorry, Sir."

"Now, do you have a safeword?"

"Parachute, Sir."

Harry's eyebrow pops up. "Parachute?"

"Yes, um, it's a Muggle device—"

"I know what a parachute is," Harry replies with a small smile. "Very well, parachute it is. That will be my safeword as well."

Draco's eyes go round and incredulous. "Your safeword?"

Harry chuckles. "Of course. You don't think you're the only one affected by all of this? That you're the only one who might become overwhelmed?" He looks at Draco and feels the blood coursing through his veins. It's a heady rush. "I could very easily lose myself in you."

Draco bites back a small gasp and his arms flex. Harry has no doubt his fingers are curling into his palms behind his back.

"There are two reasons you should use a safeword. If you are physically injured, or if you feel you are either emotionally or morally compromised. I will check in with you sometimes and ask for a color. 'Green' means continue, 'yellow' means slow down. If you feel you are at 'red', then safeword. Can you abide by that?"

"Yes, Harry."

He waves a hand in the air, and a small pulse of magic settles over them both. "There. If either of us feels the need to safeword, the scene stops. If you are bound or restrained in any manner, you will be released. Then we will talk about what happened and either choose to continue or end the scene altogether." He fixes Draco with a pointed look. "There is no shame in using it. There will be no consequences or repercussions. It is exactly what it implies: safety. For both of us. Understand?"

Harry sees the tiny flicker of light in Draco's eyes growing by the second.

"Yes, Harry."

"Are you familiar with aftercare?" he asks, somehow already knowing the answer. Merlin help him if he ever gets his hands on Zabini.

"In theory."

Harry's lips purse. "Aftercare is not an option. You have put yourself in my hands, and I am responsible for you. I have a duty of care toward to you that I take very seriously. It is an honorable obligation and an essential part of this relationship for me. I want to take care of you. In all the ways that I can. Aftercare is necessary because it gives me a way to assess your physical and mental health after a scene. It lets me know what I've done right, and what I need to work on. If I'm pushing you too hard, or—" Harry's tongue flicks out over his lips, "not hard enough. It creates closeness and cements the bond that will form between us." He steps closer, entreating Draco with a soft look. "Will you let me care for you?"

Draco's breath is warm on his face, and his eyes are shining now. Heat is radiating from his body and Harry knows if he looks down, he's likely to see evidence of an erection in Draco's trousers. A slow, pink flush is working its way up his neck, coloring him in patches that Harry wants to lick and bite at his leisure.

"I asked you a question, Draco. Will you let me care for you?" It's an admonishment, but it holds no heat.

Draco is luminous.

"Yes, Harry."

Without a word, Harry turns from him and goes to the sofa, sitting down. He places his right hand on the arm and lets his left arm rest across the back. He swings one leg across the other at the ankle, the very picture of confidence and control.

"Very well, let's begin." Harry gestures with a nod. "Take off your clothes and place them on the end of the sofa."

Draco complies, hands slowly moving to the top button of his shirt. One by one, he unfastens them, stopping only when he reaches his waistband. He untucks the bottom half of the shirt, making deliberate work of pushing each button through the hole. His eyes are downcast the entire time, and his bottom lip is pulled between his teeth in light concentration. When he shrugs one shoulder from the fabric, his eyes come up to meet Harry's, and his lashes flutter as he releases his lip on a sigh.

"This isn't a striptease, Draco," Harry says. "You already have my attention."

Draco looks surprised at that and slips out of the shirt with much less fanfare. He walks to the other end of the sofa, folds the shirt and places it on the cushion. He divests himself of his shoes, placing them neatly on the floor, tucking his socks inside.

"Is this alright? My shoes?" His voice is soft and quiet.

"Yes," Harry says. "Please continue."

Harry scrutinizes every patch of revealed skin, his eyes raking over the taut planes of Draco's chest and torso, marveling in the pale alabaster of his skin. The Dark Mark stands out, but Harry's eyes glance right over it, choosing instead to focus on the long column of Draco's graceful neck. Trousers are unbuckled without ceremony, and they come off in a swish of fabric. He's not wearing anything underneath, and Harry is presented with Draco in all his glory. He watches as the trousers are shaken out and folded. Draco's movements are precise and methodical, and Harry thinks he could watch Draco like this for hours.

"I like looking at you," he says. Harry's voice is thick and full of interest. "You have no idea how much. You're something worth watching."

Harry admires the muscled curve of Draco's arse as he bends to place his trousers on the sofa. Draco's lashes bat shyly, as if he's unused to such compliments. Perhaps he isn't, not like this. That's about to change.

Draco straightens and moves to stand directly in front of Harry, hands clasped behind him as before. He is tall, long and lean, just miles and miles of flawless skin that Harry wants to get his hands on.

But not yet.

Tonight will determine if Draco can obey enough, trust enough, to earn Harry's touch. Harry wants to give it to him, Merlin's fucking beard, he wants it, possibly even more than Draco. But he possesses enough self-control to keep from giving in. The waiting has a purpose, like everything else. Harry's learned that anything freely given has a tendency to lose its value over time, and that's the last thing Harry wants. What's about to happen between them has an importance that Harry can't possibly put a price on. If Draco wants it, he has to earn it, so that he may know the value of obedience and the depth of Harry's esteem.

A flick of Harry's wrist puts a Cushioning charm on the floor. He smiles up at Draco, lips pulling back over his teeth in a devilish grin.

"On your knees, Draco."

Draco is grace personified as he lowers himself to kneel. He assumes the waiting position, and if he is surprised by the charm, his face doesn't show it. He maintains eye contact with Harry, but his breathing has picked up a touch, making his chest rise and fall in a sharper rhythm.

Harry uncrosses his legs, his bare foot falling to rest on the other side of Draco's knees. He's framing Draco now, and he eases forward, letting his forearms come to rest on his thighs. The position puts his face level with Draco's. He casts a quick glance downward.

Draco's cock is hard.

Harry has to bite back a groan because that right there is undeniable proof of the truth to Draco's words. He wants this. He wants Harry. He's ready for Harry to take control. To make him feel alive, to give him pleasure. To make him come undone.

But only when Harry allows it.

Harry shifts his gaze to Draco's hands, upturned on his thighs. His fingers are long and elegant, exquisitely crafted, and Harry knows exactly where he wants them.

"You have lovely hands," he says on a rumbling drawl. "They're like the rest of you. Distinguished. Beautiful." He meets Draco's eyes. "I want to see you wrap them around your cock. I want to see what they look like when you pleasure yourself." Draco swallows and Harry can see tiny beads of sweat that have cropped up at his hairline. "Touch yourself for me. Show me the pleasure your body has to offer."

Draco's cock twitches at his words, and his right hand moves to grip his erection. As the first touch, Draco hisses and his chin drops to his chest. But he complies, and his hand begins to stroke with hesitance, fingers curling lightly around the shaft.

"Good," Harry purrs, and he can see the ripple in Draco's shoulders at the low praise. "Like that—slowly."

The faint blush that colored his pale skin darkens and creeps steadily outward, covering his cheeks, bleeding out to spread across his neck, shoulders, and chest. Draco moans softly under the touch of his own hand and the sound makes Harry's cock hard in his trousers. He's keeping to the steady pace demanded of him, but Harry can see his knuckles whiten as he tightens his grip, prolonging the sensation. Draco's cock grows redder, slick and purple at the head, and Harry's mouth waters. It's not a show, but it is. He's doing as he's told, but fuck if he doesn't know exactly how to keep Harry's attention.

_Cheeky sub._

The slow drag of skin on skin has to be rough, but it seems to be good enough for Draco. Harry doesn't feel the same way. A quick snap of his fingers has Draco's hand coated in conjured lube, and now his hand slips over his cock with a wet, slick slide. Draco cries out sharply at the increased sensation and his head jerks up to stare at Harry with wide, aroused eyes. Harry merely smirks in response as Draco snorts a harsh breath through his nose. The reduced friction has his hand moving faster now, and bless Merlin, he slows, obviously wanting to keep to the original pace Harry set for him.

"Faster," Harry says. "Tighter. Imagine it's my hand wrapped around you." He spreads his hands across his knees for Draco to see. His hands are not as long; they're wider, and his fingers are thicker. "How hard do you think I can squeeze?"

Draco's only answer is a muffled groan as his hand speeds up.

"I think you'd like that. My hand on your cock. Stroking you. Maybe running my thumb over your slit. Would you be wet for me?" Draco sucks in a gasping breath as his chest heaves. "I think you would. I think you'd be absolutely dripping for me." Harry's eyebrow raises. "Are you wet for me now?"

"Yes—" Draco huffs. "Yes, Sir."

Harry leans in, inches from Draco's lips. "Soon, I'm going to taste you. I'll rub your dripping cock all over my lips and fuck you with my mouth."

Draco swears and rolls his bottom lip between his teeth again. "Fuck, Harry."

"I'll have to hold you down to do it. I want to be able to taste your cock at the back of my throat."

Draco's hand is flying over his cock. It's flushed an angry red, and is glistening from the lube and the copious amounts of pre-come that has oozed from the tip. His left hand has turned over and is now digging into the flesh of his thigh, leaving crescent-shaped nail marks behind that are dotted with pinpricks of blood.

"I won't stop there," Harry continues, and the deep timbre of his voice makes his next words sound like a commandment more than a promise. "No, before I'm done with you, I'm going to know what every inch of your skin tastes like. Inside and out. I bet if I flipped you over right now and stuck my tongue in your arse you'd come like a faucet."

Draco's mouth falls open on a choked sob that sounds a lot like 'please'.

"But you see, we have all the time in the world for that, don't we?" Harry breathes over Draco's lips again. "Because I don't think I'll ever be done with you."

His jaw is clenched tight, biting down on his lip so hard Harry sees a tiny rivulet of crimson at the corner of his mouth. He's holding back, doing his best to ward off the impending orgasm, waiting for Harry's command. It's not something they discussed, and not something Harry expected. This is more of Draco wanting to be _good_. To prove himself. To show that he trusts Harry enough to let him know when he can come.

He can't hold on much longer, but Harry has to push him just a little bit. Harry leans to the side and puts his lips next to Draco's ear. Draco's head cranes, chasing him, wanting to lean into him, wanting contact, but Harry pulls back.

Draco whimpers, bereft. But his hand keeps going.

"You are so beautiful like this," Harry whispers in his ear. "So perfect. There are so many things that I am going to do to you. So many ways to give you what you want. We're going to do it all. I'm going to strap you down to my bed and crawl over your body and impale myself on your cock. You'll be so gorgeous laid out for me, and I'll fuck myself until neither of us can see straight. I'm going to ride you so hard, and the only thing you can do is lay there and take it. Take the feel of my arse clenching hot and tight around you, sliding up and down your perfect prick. You won't be able to move, all you can do is writhe and moan. I'll bet your mouth will be open, crying out for me, just waiting to catch a taste of my come." Harry sits back and catches his reflection in Draco's eyes, knowing that now it goes all the way into Draco's bones. "What do you think I taste like?"

"Please, Harry," Draco whines. " _Please._ "

It's enough.

"You're so good, Draco. So good, baby. Do it. Come for me."

If he marveled at Draco's beauty before, it's nothing compared to what he looks like when he comes.

He is absolutely breathtaking.

Draco's head snaps back and his eyes slam shut. His mouth falls open on a keening, guttural groan that's got to be coming from his toes. The sound is so resonant it hits Harry right in the balls and he has to press the heel of his hand to the raging hard-on in his trousers to keep from joining Draco in plummeting over the edge. The muscles and tendons in Draco's neck are straining against his skin, and Harry wants to lean forward and sink his teeth in right there over Draco's pulse. He wants to feel the pounding of Draco's blood, feel the shake of his body as he rides out the high of orgasm.

Draco's fist stutters as he fucks through it, panting and gasping as thick, white ropes of come spurt out between his fingers and splatter on the floor. The sight of him is filthy and gorgeous, sweaty and debauched, and Harry feels a distinct sense of pride as his name falls from Draco's lips in a half-garbled utterance.

The Cushioning charm catches Draco as he collapses to the side, body twitching with tiny aftershocks. Harry snaps into action with a wandless Accio, and a fluffy white towel flies into his hand. He Vanishes the mess on the floor and hits Draco with a quick Scourgify.

Draco whimpers at the tingle of magic on his skin, and Harry knows he's overstimulated. His heavy-lidded eyes are barely cracked, his mouth open as his breathing struggles to level out, but his face is slack and sated. Harry kneels down next to him, wrapping the towel around his shoulders, careful not touch him directly. He's a bit of dead weight, and while Harry can handle him no problem, he casts a Lightening charm just to get Draco to his feet without any undue jostling. Harry walks him to the bathroom, murmuring soft noises of encouragement in his ear.

By the time Harry maneuvers him through the door, the shower is already running and steamy. Harry shakes his head and lets out a muted chuckle.

_Bloody voyeuristic house._

He guides Draco into the shower and directs him to brace his hands on the tile. Harry steps in behind him, clothes and all, and grabs a couple of flannels and proceeds to wash Draco with careful, gentle movements. The cloth prevents skin to skin contact as Harry soaps him up all over. Harry lets his cloth-covered hand roam freely over Draco's body and he feels a level of contentment he's never felt before. Taking care of Draco is nothing like taking care of any of the other subs he's been with. He's never felt such a personal duty of care to someone before.

Not even with the entire Wizarding world counting on him to defeat a Dark Lord.

"You were so beautiful, Draco. You did so well."

Draco's moan isn't fully coherent. He's looking at Harry though shower-soaked lashes, and Harry can see that he's deep in the hazy, blissed-out fog of subspace. It warms Harry through because Merlin knows Draco needed it. He has no idea how long it's been for Draco to get this deep, or to get into subspace at all, given what Blaise had subjected him to.

Harry turns off the taps and leads Draco out of the shower, toweling him dry with slow motions, conscious of Draco's every breath and sigh. Harry's soaking wet but he doesn't care, only managing a half-hearted Drying charm on his own clothes. It's Draco's comfort he's concerned with.

They make it back to the bedroom and Harry steers him toward the bed. It takes no effort to get Draco under the sheets, naked, soft, and clean. He's asleep before his head even hits the pillow. Harry drops the towel in his hands and heads back over to the sofa. He stretches out, keeping his gaze on Draco's sleeping form.

He wants to reconcile everything that's happened, but there's too much emotion thrumming through his blood at the moment. Draco is something to behold. Something Harry knows he's been missing. He's unable to take his eyes off Draco, and he lies there like that, just watching, for several hours before sleep claims him as well.

When Harry wakes in the morning, his eyes instinctively shoot to the four-poster, already wanting to see if the reality measures up to previous vision given to him by the Manor. Harry gets up and strides to the bed. His gaze rakes over the tangle of blue sheets, and his mouth purses tightly. Because the bed is empty, the sheets are cold, and Draco has committed his first transgression.

OOOOO

Harry stands outside Draco's door, keeping himself in check. The wards around Draco's door ripple lightly, and then with a stronger, more warning pulse. He rolls his eyes and sighs, whispering into the air, "Really? You know I have intention of hurting him."

After a second, the wards dissolve, and the door to Draco's room flies open with a bang. Draco bolts upright with a hand to his chest.

"Shit!" he gasps. Draco cranes his neck forward, squinting into where Harry fills the doorway. "Ha—Harry?"

Harry puts his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. "Come with me."

Draco slips out of bed and into his slippers, not bothering with a dressing gown, before following Harry across the hall to his room.

Harry feels the tension radiating from Draco as he shuffles across the floor to stand next to Potter at the edge of the bed. Harry's hand comes up to press lightly at the base of Draco's neck.

Draco freezes.

"Relax," Harry murmurs beside him. "I think a bit of communication is in order."

Draco turns to look at him with apprehensive eyes, and it makes Harry want to drag Blaise Zabini back to England by his bollocks.

"Is this where I left you last night?" Harry asks.

"Yes."

Harry's thumb rubs a hard circle on the column of Draco's neck. "Did I tell you to leave?"

Draco swallows, blinking rapidly. "No." His voice has a slight croak.

Harry draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. Draco is still so tense beside him. "If I left you here last night, and didn't ask you to leave, then why in the world were you not here this morning?"

Draco's eyes are searching his, and Harry sees the wheels turning in his mind. _What's the right answer?_

"Be honest. We have to trust each other," Harry says. He lets his fingers thread through the bottom of Draco's hair, swirling in a soothing pattern. "Why didn't you stay?"

"I—I didn't know I was supposed to—I mean, I've never— _stayed_ before." Draco stutters his response as he attempts to duck out from underneath Harry's touch.

But Harry tightens his grip enough to keep Draco still, and maneuvers his head back to look at the empty bed. "This is a problem easily solved. I should have been clearer in my direction. I apologize if it made you uncomfortable."

Harry's made quite the habit of startling Draco into speechlessness, and this time is no exception. He smiles with warmth at Draco's surprised expression.

"Remember my words," Harry says. "Above anything, I value communication, honesty, and trust. Without those, this type of relationship will not work. I think you already know that, but putting it into action will be a challenge for you." Harry continues caressing Draco's neck. "I will help you with that. I will also require you stay. There are exceptions to that, of course. But unless you need distance, I'm keeping you from something, or I specifically ask you to go, I want you to stay. I like having my lover close to me."

Draco's breath hitches at the word 'lover'.

Harry leans in to the side, getting close to Draco's ear. "I wanted to watch you wake up in my bed this morning. I wanted to see the sunlight stream in and shine across your beautiful body. I wanted to be the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes." Harry huffs out a disappointed breath, and Draco shivers beneath it. "I wanted it to be in my room, not your doorway."

"I—I'm sorry, Harry," Draco whispers.

Harry shushes him. "No, there's no need for an apology. I admit I was upset at first, but you cannot be held accountable for something of which you weren't aware. But now you know." The last statement is final. "And _now_ you are accountable."

"Yes."

Draco's acquiescence is warm and liquid in Harry's chest. It's amazing how a little patience and some self-control can bring out this side of Draco. The one that wants to understand, the one that wants to please. And Harry wants to repay him for his willingness to learn. Harry dips his head and drags the bridge of his nose along the column of Draco's neck, watching him swallow hard in response. He breathes out over Draco's skin, warm and humid, leaving behind just a flicker of moisture.

Draco bites off a tiny moan.

"Very good, Draco." Harry's lips press along the shell of Draco's ear, not a proper kiss, just a brushing of flesh of flesh. Draco's still not ready for kissing. Harry hums softly against the appendage in approval, peeking down to see what effect he's having.

The tent in Draco's pajamas is unmistakable. As is the darkening spot of damp on the pale blue fabric.

"I like you like this," Harry purrs. "Warm, mussed from sleep, looking satisfied, but still wanting. It had been a while, hadn't it? Coming like that?"

"Ye—Yes, Harry." Draco sounds totally broken now and Harry smiles against his skin.

He pulls back, but continues to speak in Draco's ear. "Now, I'm going to go downstairs and have breakfast with your mother. While I'm gone, I want you to go into my bathroom and take a nice, long shower. I want you to think about last night and touch yourself again. I want you to wash your hair with my shampoo, clean your body with my soap, and think about what it would feel like to have my hands all over you. I want to be able to eat my breakfast knowing that you're up here, bringing yourself off and thinking of me. Of my hand on your cock, my lips on your skin. Thinking about what it would be like if I split you open and fucked you against the wall, right underneath the hot spray."

Draco whimpers, and Harry's cock twitches at the sound.

"I want to know that you're in my room, my space, my shower, smelling like me, fucking into your fist, gasping for me. I want you to make yourself come for me, and then I want you to wear something from my closet and come down for breakfast. Am I clear?"

Harry steps back and Draco falters a little, but steadies himself before nodding. "Ye—Yes, Harry."

"Excellent," Harry says brightly. "And Draco," he adds before turning, "Make it good for me."


	18. Chapter 18

The door isn't shut for two seconds and Draco's scrambling to get into the bathroom, tripping over his own feet in haste to chuck off his pajama pants. It doesn't even register; his body is moving of its own volition, propelled forward at Harry's words as if disobedience isn't even an option. It's unthinkable.

The shower spray is steaming hot and ready for him as he steps inside, and his first thought is to wrap his hand around his cock and pull on it for all he's worth.

No. Wash first.

Because Harry says.

Draco lathers himself from head to toe in a frantic rush, soaping and scrubbing at every crevice like a madman.

No. Slow down.

Because Harry says.

His movements falter as he works slower, dragging his hands across his skin in a slide of warm suds. He rubs in gentle circles over his chest and abdomen, coming back up over his arms and shoulders. The water is hot and the spray is firm, making his skin tingle as it couples with the friction of his hands. He turns and braces a foot on the marble shower seat, washing down over his thigh and calf and foot, getting in between his toes and behind his knee. He washes like this all the time (cleanliness is always a personal priority), but it somehow seems more intimate now. Something altogether different than his regular ablutions. Draco gives his other leg the same attention, and then grabs for the bottle, squirting another dollop into his palm.

It's not his personal concoction; this is a brand used in all the guest rooms, specially imported from Wizarding France. Draco prefers citrusy scents, sometimes lavender, but this one is fresh and green, with a hint of juniper and an undercurrent of peppercorn. It smells like Harry.

He threads his fingers through his hair, working it into a rich lather. The scent is permeating through the steam and he's dizzy with it, almost reeling from the potency. It hits him right in the groin and Draco realizes he's hard. Extremely hard.

It should stick in his craw that he's hard and aching at just the command of Harry's words. He hasn't even touched himself and his cock is throbbing, begging to be touched. But it doesn't. His body is disturbingly responsive, wound tight.

Because Harry says.

When he takes his erection in hand, he hisses loudly, teeth clamping down on the moan that wants to break free. His cock is hot to the touch, already red and leaking at the tip. One stroke is all it takes, and that moan slips out, sounding more like a satisfying groan.

Draco steps under the beat of the spray, rinsing out his hair, even as his hand starts pumping over his cock. Soap runs in his eyes with a slight sting, but even the hint of a burn only serves to heighten his arousal. The drag of his palm is bracing, and the faster it moves, the more the breath catches in his lungs. He throws his head back, giving into the harsh build of pressure, and lets the water cascade over his face and neck. It's Harry's hand on him now, he imagines behind closed eyes. Harry's hand stroking over his flesh, Harry's body next to him, Harry's words whispering in his ear.

He pants, open mouthed, practically choking on the spray. He spits and snorts and shakes his head, slumping forward to brace one forearm on the tile wall. Draco lets his forehead press against his arm, taking his weight as he continues fisting his dripping cock. He feels heat coiling at the base of his spine, and he gasps. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches a glimpse of black on his skin and his blood turns to ice.

Draco reels back, turning his arm. The Mark glares at him, and a roll of nausea creeps into his throat. He stares at the tattoo, stark and malevolent against the pallor of his skin, reminding him of who he is. The kind of man he will always be. The kind of man who enjoys kneeling for another man's pleasure. The kind of man who needs this sort of depravity. Who needs to debase himself to feel whole. He is sick. Sick and twisted like the snake on his arm. Sick and twisted like the snake he tried to become. Sick and twisted standing in the shower, jacking into his fist like a fiend, because Harry told him to.

Because Harry says.

There's a sob welling from somewhere deep in his soul, inching slowly upward like the spread of poison through his veins. He wants to scream. He wants to howl. He wants to not need this so badly. To not need Harry's direction and calm control to find that quiet place inside where he's _Draco_. Not Malfoy. Not the Death Eater. Not Lucius' son.

Maybe there's a place where he can be _Harry's_.

He's spent so long feeling dirty and unclean, like he can never wash away the slick taint of evil that coats his skin in a swirl of ink. The taint that covers him in shame, because he _is_ shameful. Shamefully pulling on his prick and loving it. Every filthy second. He doesn't understand how Harry can see him as anything more than he is, anything more than a weak-willed freak who follows Dark Lords and needs Harry's command to come.

Draco collapses to the floor as the sob pierces the air. The seal is broken, and his anguish comes pouring out, even as the pleasure keeps spiraling in his blood. He cries and screams, tears pouring from his eyes, choking on his own spit. Snot drips from his nose, and he's hot and shamed and terrified and aroused all at once.

Not once does his grip on his cock falter. Not once does his pleasure wane.

Because Harry says.

He imagines what he looks like, crumpled on the floor of the shower, a mess of monumental proportions.

But Harry thinks he is beautiful.

Because Harry says.

Harry says make it good.

_Anything for Master Harry._

Draco scrambles to his feet and regrips himself, leaning forward to use his left hand to reach back and gingerly trace around his arse. The touch is energizing, and flashes quick in his blood like fire. His hole twitches as he works in one finger, then two, aided by the only wandless spell he can still manage. The same one every boy of a certain age learns to master. It's awkward, standing in this position, panting and jerking and fucking himself with lube-slick fingers, but he imagines Harry on the other side of the glass, watching him through the fog. Eyes bright and pupils blown, his gaze never wavering on Draco's every move.

Harry says make it good.

_Anything for Master Harry._

He shoves his fingers further into his arse, pistoning his hips back and forth in time with the pump of his fist. The sensation is incredible, and his mouth falls open on a guttural moan that sweeps up from his toes. His eyes slam shut because he can't bear to look at himself, instead choosing to put Harry's face at the forefront of his mind. He focuses on Harry's eyes, looking at him with such wicked intent. He hears the sound of his voice, urging him onward in raspy, throaty encouragement. Draco shuffles forward and braces his knee on the seat and crouches forward for a better angle. The change is instantaneous.

Heat and fire and Harry zip through him, setting him ablaze. He's sweating, his back is aching, his balls are heavy and swollen, and his cock is harder in his hand than it's ever been. He knows he must look, whimpering and whining like a slut, needing to be fucked, needing to be filled with a want that is blind to everything in this world but what he thinks Harry's cock will feel like. Debauched, mouth open in an inelegant gape as he gasps for breath, body hunched and contorted so he can fuck his hand and his arse at the same time, the very picture of sin itself. But Harry's eyes look back at him with wonder. With approval. With want. It settles over him that this is how Harry sees him.

Beautifully obedient.

A thing of worth.

Of pride.

Emotion swells in his heart because it feels like someone has blown away the smoke and the shadow, leaving him to stand there in Harry's gaze, shining with light. The pressure clamps down and he fucks and fucks and fucks under Harry's watchful eye, until the sensation coalesces to burst out in a tide of orgasm.

He comes like a herd of Thestrals. Thick, white ropes of it over his hand and the tile, mouth groaning out Harry's name. Draco feels the last of his anguish spurt out with the last pulse of his cock.

He is beautiful.

He is pure.

He is clean.

He is Harry's.

Because Harry says.

_Anything for Master Harry._

OOOOO

Harry nearly chokes on his coffee as a ripple of the Manor's magic flushes through his groin on a rush of pleasure. He sets the cup down and daps at his lips with the napkin, letting the smile spread wide on his face, because he knows Draco has done exactly as he was told.

_Good boy._


	19. Chapter 19

Draco's scent strolls into the room a good five seconds before he does, and Harry's head turns as if pulled by an invisible tether to watch him walk in the door. A swell of emotion rises in his chest like a wave breaking the shore and Harry knows in this instant that he is gone. Hopelessly gone.

Gone over the too-large charcoal grey t-shirt that matches the depth of color in Draco's eyes. Gone over the way said shirt gapes enticingly over the hollow of his collarbones. Gone over the way those jeans sling low on his hips and drag the floor at his heels. Gone over the sparkle in his eyes and the patch of color on his cheeks, and the way that even clean and damp around the edges, Draco looks bright and fresh, and Merlin's balls…shagged. Gone like he's been pulled into another dimension, another universe where Draco is the center, shining radiant and beautiful like the sun and Harry has no choice but to orbit his presence. To do nothing but draw life from his light.

The arms of the chair creak under the squeeze of his hands, and Harry forces himself to relax.

"Darling, you certainly look…refreshed this morning." Narcissa's smile is broad across her face as she takes Draco in with motherly scrutiny. "Sleep well?"

Draco's gaze passes over Harry, causing a small smile to tug at his lips. "I did. Had a bit of a lie-in and a long, hot shower."

Harry's cock jumps in his trousers.

"It's done wonders for your complexion, my love. You look almost new."

This time Draco's eyes are for Harry alone. "I feel almost new."

Narcissa pushes her chair back and rises to her feet, slow and graceful as always. "Well," she says on a sigh, "since we're all feeling so wonderful, I thought we might celebrate."

"Celebrate?" Draco's voice sounds a touch wary.

"Yes," she continues. "I thought we might have a small dinner party tomorrow evening. Just close friends." Her eyes sharpen on Draco. "Pansy's in from America."

Harry's breath catches at the genuine smile on Draco's face.

"She owled me this morning. I thought I might invite Neville, and Harry could extend an invitation to Ronald Weasley and his wife." She turns to Harry. "If that's acceptable to you, that is."

Surprisingly, it's more than acceptable. "I think that's a fabulous idea, Cissa."

Her face brightens considerably, and it warms corners of Harry's heart to see it. "I'll send those owls out, if you'll get in touch with your friends?" she asks.

Harry nods in assent. "I'll do it after breakfast. What time?"

"Seven sound good to you, sweetheart?" she asks Draco.

"Seven is perfect, Mother. I think Cook will be pleased to cater an affair after so long." Draco replies.

She inclines her head in response. "I'll take care of everything, then." Narcissa spares a quick peck for both of them and glides out of the dining room on a swish.

"Well," Draco huffs out slowly as Blinky appears with his breakfast, "a dinner party. She must be feeling good. There haven't been people here in ages." He takes a delicate bite of bacon and Harry is mesmerized by the action. Draco chews carefully and furrows his brows in thought. Swallowing, he says, "At least not since I left for Switzerland."

"It will keep her occupied," Harry concedes.

Draco snorts. "At least until Longbottom gets here."

Harry raises an eyebrow and smiles back at him. "Don't tell me you're planning on voicing an objection?"

Draco meets his gaze and nibbles on his toast. "If I was, I would have every right to do so. She is my mother. Her welfare is my concern."

Harry doesn't say anything, but keeps his smile in place. It's only a second or two before Draco sighs and shakes his head.

"No, I don't plan on voicing an objection." His tone is soft and resigned. "Even if I think she's far too old and far too good for him, I can admit that his presence here has changed her state of mind for the better. If he makes her happy, all I can really do is be grateful." Draco glares at Harry's knowing grin and points a long, elegant finger at him. "However, should he make her _unhappy_ , I will be the first to queue and hex his sorry arse six ways from Sunday."

Harry chuckles. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

"I can be civil," Draco sniffs. "I can be polite and accommodating. Hell, I can even go so far as to be," he shudders delicately, "friendly."

"You've already been friendly," Harry points out.

"Yes, but that was before there was something—" he waves a hand in the air, "I can't even fathom what it should be called, but _something_ between them."

"Friendship? Companionship?" Harry folds his hands in his lap. "A mutual physical attraction?"

Draco rolls his eyes. "Ugh, please. Do we have to talk about this? I would feel much better about the whole thing if we didn't have to actually discuss it."

"Fine, fine," Harry laughs. "But you know if it goes any further, at some point, there will be much discussing." He shoots Draco a knowing look. "In detail."

"And now you've put me off my breakfast, you git." Draco pushes his plate back and sighs again. "Are you determined to disturb me today?"

Harry's smile goes from playful to heated in a second. "I thought I already did that."

The change in Draco is instantaneous, and it burns through Harry with satisfaction.

Draco's skin pinks up from his neck to ears and his lashes flutter as his eyes drop to the table. He picks at his napkin and gives Harry a side-long glance.

"You did."

"And how do you feel now?"

His brow crinkles and his mouth opens to speak, but it takes him a second to find his words. "Better. I had a moment of self-reflection which made things difficult."

"Oh?" Harry cuts in. "Are you alright?"

Draco rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, and it is fucking delectable.

"Yes," he replies. "I worked through it. It's a line of thought I'm slowly learning to leave behind."

The fingers on his left hand curl and uncurl, and Harry knows exactly why. The Mark is a lot to make peace with, even if he professes he has. Harry still has nightmares about some of things he's done in the name of war; he can only imagine how Draco must be struggling to reconcile himself as well.

He gets up out of his chair and moves to stand behind Draco.

"Good," Harry says. "You look well, anyway." He bends down to Draco's ear and whispers, "You look fucked. I like that."

Draco's head snaps up and a tiny gasp escapes him. "I—I did as you asked."

"I know. I can tell. That pleases me."

The bit of praise is like a touch because Draco shifts to sit taller in his chair, and the deep, satisfactory breath he takes mirrors the sudden gleam in his eyes. He's proud of himself.

He should be.

"Thank you, Harry."

Harry leans further down and presses a soft kiss to Draco's forehead. When he pulls back, Draco's eyes are wide and glassy. He brushes the back of his hand over Draco's cheek. "No, Draco, thank you. And because you've been so good, I think you've earned some kissing."

Draco's face tilts like he's been jerked backward.

"Not yet, darling," Harry murmurs over his lips. "Tomorrow night, after the dinner party, when everyone's gone home, I'm going to take you to my room and kiss every inch of you. By the time I'm done, your taste will be branded on my tongue."

Draco's strangled whimper is his only response.

Harry's grin turns playful again and he gives Draco a cheeky grin. "Anticipation makes the cock grow harder."

Draco's eyes widen for a second before he barks out a short hoot of laughter. "Oh, Merlin, that was awful. Just—oh, that was truly terrible."

Harry ducks his head and laughs alongside him.

"First you make me wait, and then you subject me to terrible aphorisms?" Draco clucks. "I cannot abide such treatment."

"Yes, you're so maligned." Harry rolls his eyes and straightens. "I like this. That we can laugh together. Talk together."

"Make terrible puns together?" Draco drawls.

"Exactly," Harry nods. "There's more to us than an intense physical draw. There are light moments. Fun moments. Even when the physical is burning in the background." He steps closer and reaches for Draco's hand. "It's the whole package, Draco. This is the building of a relationship. Not just sex. I want you to know that." His thumb strokes over Draco's skin, soaking in the feel. "I want to show you. I want you to believe it."

"I do believe it."

Draco's eyes are like pools of molten silver. He is relaxed, unguarded, and completely at ease. He's telling the truth. It takes Harry's breath away.

As Draco leaves to go about his day, Harry smiles to himself.

It may be a terrible cliché, but goddamn if he's not hard in jeans anticipating what it's going to be like when he finally gets his lips on Draco Malfoy the way he wants to.


	20. Chapter 20

"Potter."

Pansy Parkinson is a devastatingly beautiful woman. She's grown from the pinched, pug-faced girl of Harry's past and morphed into a bold, confidant woman. Her hair is still severe, but the few years that have passed have made the black bob chic instead of over-styled. She's all dark eyes, red lips, and steely resolve, yet there's a warmth underneath that graces her edges. Her nails are polished, lacquered to a blood-red shine, and her hands curl around a tall flute of sparkling pumpkin juice. There's a tremor just at her fingertips that is reflected in the minute quiver of a perfectly-shaped upper lip.

"Pansy," Harry says, purposefully using her given name to deflect the cold formality that is expected. She's the only one Draco cared to invite, which says she's the only one of his former friends that means anything to him at all. That says something about her current character. That tells Harry all he needs to know.

She extends a graceful hand. "I should have done this long ago, but—" she shrugs, "I was still an idiot then." Her eyes are clear and focused and she meets his gaze head on without trepidation. "I'm sorry. For my part in the past. I know it's no excuse, but I was a child. A small, scared, idiot child. I hope that you can find it in your heart to forgive me." She pauses for a breath. "If only for Draco's sake. I'm going to be Britain-based for a while, which means I hope to see more of Draco. And I get the feeling that means I'm going to be seeing more of you as well. I would hate for my presence to cause difficulty between the two of you." Her dark eyes flash, and for a second Harry sees the Slytherin resurface. "Because I'm not giving him up, and I don't think he'll do the same."

It's a bold statement. One he doesn't disagree with.

He takes her hand and clasps it warmly, watching the tight line around her mouth recede. "The past is the past, Pansy. Consider it forgotten. As for Draco, I have no intention of coming between him and his friends. In fact, I want him to spend time with you." He gives her a genuine smile. "He missed you, you know. I'm glad you're here for him. I was hoping we could become friends as well."

Harry thinks he could have poked her and knocked her over. Wide eyes and a small gasp reveal her surprise.

"You're a decent bloke, Potter."

Harry chuckles and shakes his head, "Not so decent as you might think. I've done my fair share of terrible things."

She tips her glass at him. "Even decent men have a dark side. It's what keeps them honest." Pansy eyes the half-empty glass in his hand. "No champagne for you?"

Harry blows out a breath and leans in with a smile. "Afraid not. I have a date tonight." He tilts his head to consider her. "And you?"

Pansy's grin is wide and self-effacing. "I'm an alcoholic." She drains the last of her pumpkin juice. "But I could do with a refill."

Harry waves a hand and wandlessly refills their glasses. "So you know your limits, then?"

"Absolutely," she replies. "I got tired of waking up in strange places with even stranger people. I've discovered if I'm going to have a good time, I'd like to remember it later. This way, I don't make the same mistake twice."

"Words to live by."

She taps the side of her nose with a manicured finger. "Got it in one."

"So what is it you do nowadays?" Harry asks. "Draco hasn't mentioned."

"Nothing nefarious, I assure you." Her smile is devilish. "I design and manufacture haute couture. Park is my signature line. I've got boutiques in Milan and Paris."

"Sounds lucrative."

"Oh," she laughs, "it is. I'm terribly rich. Nowhere near your standing, but I'm getting there."

"It's nice to see the war hasn't dampened your ambitions. Good for you." Harry finds he means it. He knows post-war has been especially rough on the Slytherin set, and he gathers her story is probably quite similar to Draco's. "So what brings you back here, then?"

"I'm going to be opening a shop here in Wizarding Britain. Ready to wear for the everyday witch and wizard. I'm quite excited. It'll be a lot more work, but I think it will be worth it." She gives him a thorough once over. "You'll have to let me dress you, Potter. I know for certain that isn't something you picked out on your own."

Harry runs a hand over the line of his suit. "Narcissa, actually. I'd be lucky to have on matching socks if it weren't for her."

Pansy's eyes glitter with mischievous amusement. "You let me get my hands and my fabric on you and you'll have Draco eating out of the palm of your hand for eternity." Her lips quirk. "If he doesn't already."

It doesn't surprise him that Pansy knows about Draco's predilections, or that she feels comfortable enough to remark as such. He doesn't ever remember her having a particularly stringent verbal filter. He opens his mouth to respond when Draco appears.

Draco sidles up next to his best friend with a sparkle in his eye. "You two look cozy."

"Potter and I are bonding, Draco. Don't spoil the moment," Pansy laughs. She turns her gaze out into the dining room. "Just when were you planning on telling me Longbottom got so fit? Where was I while that was happening?"

Harry follows her line of sight to see Neville and Narcissa standing close to the hors d'oeuvres, chatting.

"Who knows?" Draco shrugs. "You've been gallivanting across the globe for the better part of a year now. It's been hell trying to get an owl to you."

She scoffs, using her free hand to brush lint from his tie. "I've been running a business and making a name for myself. You know what that's like. Busy, busy."

Draco gives her a curt mock bow. "Apologies, dear lady."

She huffs and straightens the line of her dress. "I don't want an apology," she pouts. "I want an introduction—oh, never mind, then. I see how it is."

"What?" Draco head swivels and Harry watches as Narcissa's hand glides over Neville's shoulder in a particularly familiar gesture. Draco groans. "Does everybody see it on the first go round?"

Harry and Pansy nod in unison. "Yes."

"Well, what do you think about this?" Draco asks her.

"Darling, your mother has always been one of my favorite people, but I must say I've never been so proud." She ticks off her fingers. "Gorgeous. Intelligent. War hero. She's bagged herself a right catch." Pansy turns to Harry. "You know muggles, Potter. What's the phrase I'm looking for?"

Harry grins over his glass. "Get some."

Pansy snaps her fingers and gasps, "Yes, that's it! 'Get some'."

Draco's frown is absolutely adorable. "Traitors. The both of you. I hope you're very happy together."

She laughs, a full-throated chuckle that booms out into the room. Her arm snakes into Harry's and she tugs at him. "We'll owl you an invitation to the bonding. Come, Potter. It's time you properly introduced me to your Weasleys. Ronald looks like he's got the bristle end of a broom up his arse, and Granger's shoes are exquisite. I feel like mingling."

Draco sighs. "Ugh. Take her. Not even half an hour and already I'm reminded of why she's a loathsome bint."

Pansy blows Draco a kiss as Harry steers her across the floor. "But I'm your loathsome bint, darling. Never forget," she clucks. "Chop, chop, Potter. I have a finite amount of time before these heels give out. Let's make it count."

Harry covers her hand with his and smiles. "Yes, ma'am."

His heart feels light and frothy with the warm happiness of companionship he thought he'd only ever find with Ron and Hermione. Now it appears his circle is growing, and his fondness for them all expanding with it at a rapidly increasing rate. He glances back to Draco, standing there looking elegant and perfect in his tailored suit. Draco winks at him and raises his glass in acknowledgment.

_I could get used to this._

OOOOO

Dinner is a lavish five-course affair, with each one more decadent than the last. When he finally sets his fork on the plate, only crumbs of the chocolate caramel tart remain. Now that everyone is finished, the lull in conversation recedes. Blinky pops in to clear, and Harry leans over to whisper, "I'd like a word with Cook, if you please."

Her twinkly eyes widen with apprehension, but she nods furiously and pops back out again. There's a second or two lapse when Cook appears in the dining room with a loud, grating pop. All eyes turn to her, but hers are firmly fixed on Harry, glaring daggers. Harry simply smiles at her, rises from his seat, and begins to applaud. The rest of the guests at the table soon join in, and a smattering of happy applause rings out through the room.

The stony expression anchored on Cook's face crumbles bit by bit, until her ears droop and her eyes are wide and liquid. Her bottom lip quivers and she bursts into tears. Her little hands ball into fists at her side and she shouts, "Blinky is being serving coffee now!" Her foot stamps once and she disappears with another loud pop.

Draco leans over. "Well done, Harry. You made the barmiest of the lot cry. I'd double check everything before I put it in my mouth from now on."

Harry chuckles. "I don't think that's going to be a problem. I think she likes me."

"Who wouldn't like you, Potter? Three-quarters of the Wizarding world has been in love with you for ages, certain Slytherins notwithstanding," Pansy says breezily, stepping over to them. "I'm beginning to see the fascination myself." She spares a kiss for Draco's cheek. "I'm off, love."

"What? You're not staying?" Draco's surprise makes Harry's heart clench.

"I really shouldn't. I've got a big week ahead of me. Give your mother my regards." Pansy's smile is soft and fond, but she does look tired, and Harry can see that she's torn.

Draco takes her arm. "Let me walk to you to the Floo, then."

"That's not necessary," Ron pipes up behind her. "'Mione and I are headed out as well. We'll escort Pansy."

"Yes," Hermione says, "I did want to talk more with you about this new line of yours. If that's alright with you, Pansy?"

Pansy smiles, warm and gracious, slipping from Draco's grasp to twine her arm with Hermione's. "Of course, Granger. I'm only too happy to discuss my work." She nods at them. "'Night, all. Owl me, Draco."

Ron, Hermione, and Pansy take their leave, and Harry notices that Narcissa and Neville are nowhere in sight, leaving him alone with Draco.

"Ten galleons says that we see Nev at breakfast tomorrow." Harry grins. "What do you think?"

Draco snorts. "I think discussing whether or not we find my mother and Longbottom _in flagrante delicto_ is not worth discussing."

Harry scoffs, "When you say it like that, it sounds horrible."

"That's because it is," Draco deadpans. "And I'm not thinking about them right now because I'm thinking about us."

"Us?" Harry asks lightly.

Draco's face screws into a bunchy little frown. "Kissing. I was promised kissing."

Harry slips his hand to rest at the small of Draco's back and urges him to the door. "So you were. Shall we?"

OOOOO

"Merciful Merlin!" Draco exclaims. "What's happened here?"

Harry shuts the bedroom door behind them and turns. On the far wall, to the right of the window, stands another door. One that was not there yesterday. "Oh, that." Harry sucks in a small breath between his teeth. "I required a room, and your house gave me one. Wizarding space never ceases to amaze me."

Draco blinks furiously in an attempt to gather his words. "Wait, you're telling me that the Manor just gave you another room? What's wrong with this one?" He's trying hard not to look affronted, and the bit of fluster on him has Harry's eyes darkening with arousal. Draco is gorgeous when he's expressive.

"Nothing," Harry shrugs. "But I wanted something a bit more intimate for further use."

The intimation is not lost on Draco, and his voice drops to almost a whisper. "Intimate? Like a playroom?"

"Exactly."

" _Fuck me."_ Draco breathes out long and slow.

"In time."

"And you required this for tonight?" Draco swallows hard and Harry watches the long line of his throat. He's ready to put his lips and teeth on Draco's skin. He's ready to leave all sorts of marks behind.

"Yes."

"For kissing?"

Harry edges him closer to the new door. "What did you think we were going to do? Hold hands and snog on the sofa?"

"I—I don't, I mean, I didn't think much—well, yes," Draco stutters. His eyes widen on an incredulous gasp. "What's in there?"

Harry breathes in scent of Draco's cologne and feels the softness of his hair against his lips as he leans in to rumble in Draco's ear, "Open the door, Draco, and let's find out."


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry it took this long, but I thank you all for sticking with me. I hope you find that this was worth the wait. Cheers!

Draco's gasp is colored with shock and awe. Harry grins behind him as he takes hesitant steps into the room. The light is low, but bright enough for good visibility without affecting the mood. There's little in the way of actual furniture, only a large chaise and two flanking tables. He thinks they next time they walk in here it might be different, but he doesn't really know, and he's not going to bother trying to suss out what the Manor intends. The real draw is in the middle of the room, and the second Draco's eyes hit it, light spills down overhead in a spotlight. He gasps again, and Harry has to roll his eyes at the room's overdramatic gesture. Draco moves forward and approaches it like one would a skittish animal: with slow steps and careful attention.

"What—what is this?"

The emotion in Draco's tone burrows under Harry's skin. He hears curiosity, apprehension, and restrained excitement. But no fear.

"It's how I'm going to restrain you while I kiss you."

Honestly, Harry had no idea what he would find when the door opened. He'd merely stood inside and offered up a few vague impressions of how he wanted things to go and left the rest up to the room. He certainly didn't expect this. Not that's he's complaining, because it's apparent the Manor is a great deal kinkier than he anticipated.

Draco's neck cranes upward to take in the structure. "Merlin's fucking balls, Harry. Just—" Draco's head snaps around to stare at him with desire. "Put me in it, yeah?"

The smooth polish that normally coats his words is gone, and Harry hears the raw want that makes Draco's speech rough—almost common, really.

The item in question that's making Draco lose the last of his comportment is a large, rectangular metal frame. It's bolted through to the floor, fastened down by metal plates and rivets as big as Harry's thumbs. Two sets of restraints dangle from the top and near the floor: wide, thick leather with large, shiny buckles and lined with soft fleece. It's a rack designed for flogging, or any other number of intense activities, and even though they're not headed in that direction yet, Harry thinks what's about to happen will be just as intense. His chest aches with the thought.

_Possibly more so._

Draco's gaze swivels from the rack to Harry, back and forth like a metronome, keeping the same beat as the blood pumping through Harry's veins. He takes a deep breath, centers himself to focus his mind, and then exhales slowly.

"Strip."

Draco is naked in seconds, his clothes neatly folded in a pile on the small table, and Harry has to stop a smile from spreading across his face at Draco's eagerness.

"Very good," he says, raking his eyes over Draco's pale form. His cock is hard, jutting out from his body, and his eyes sparkle in the light. He's trembling slightly, but he's making a concerted effort to keep himself under control.

Harry turns from Draco and divests himself of his shirt, socks, and shoes, tossing them to the side, before walking over to the frame. "Come here," he says, holding out a hand.

Draco moves with controlled precision, his eyes on the frame. He doesn't look at Harry until Harry's hand closes around his wrist and pulls him forward into the center of the frame. A ripple dances down Draco's spine on a sharp exhale.

"If this is uncomfortable, use your safeword, and we'll stop now."

"No," Draco protests as his head swings around to Harry. "I mean—just, no. That won't be necessary. I want this."

The desire in Draco's eyes reflects the simple truth. He wants this. He wants Harry.

Harry is silent as he crouches down and urges Draco's feet apart with his hands. Draco's arse is right above his head, and for a second, he wants to lean forward and bite and lick at the offering before him. To shove his face between those muscled cheeks and thrust his tongue inside. To make Draco shake and scream his name. To beg for mercy.

_Patience, Harry. All in good time._

He's still enough when Harry buckles his ankles into the restraints, but the faint clink of the chain makes Draco's breath catch. Harry lets his fingers linger on the divot behind the joint, stroking softly to ground him. He wants to bend down and kiss him right there, run his tongue along that indented patch of skin, and find out if that will make Draco shiver.

Another few minutes, and he'll have the answer.

Harry stands, careful to keep his chest from colliding with Draco's skin.

"Arms up. Grab the bar just above the chain."

Draco's arms ascend gracefully over his head, and his fingers curl around the metal frame above where the chain is anchored into place. He doesn't go around to face Draco, instead preferring to fasten him in from behind. Harry's hands work quickly, buckling him in securely.

He leans in to whisper in Draco's ear, "Are you ready for this?"

"Y—yes."

Harry traces the curve of his ear with the bridge of his nose, sighing softly. "You're going to be so good for me, Draco. Aren't you?"

Draco twitches and gasps, "Y—yes, Harry." He swallows hard. "Please."

Harry presses a kiss to his ear. "So polite. So obedient. I like that."

Draco's response is a muffled groan.

Harry's hands reach up to grab the frame just below Draco's. He holds his body back to keep from touching, but close enough to feel the heat radiating from Draco's skin. His lips graze beneath Draco's ear, right at the dip behind his earlobe. It's a soft, reverent kiss, and Harry has to close his eyes as he breathes in Draco's scent. He kisses his way down to where Draco's neck meets his shoulder, trading in the chaste press of lips for a wet, open-mouthed perusal.

He tastes salty and sweet all at once, and it's an addictive combination that stirs an awakening in Harry's groin. Draco groans and tilts his head to the side, elongating that beautiful neck, giving Harry access to worry his teeth along the slope.

It's such a precious thing, Draco's willingness to submit, and Harry has to grip the frame harder to keep his hands from wandering. This is about the kiss. The insistent press of lips on flesh, the flicker of tongue against sweat-cooled skin, the taste of the man beneath him. The intimacy that only kisses can bring.

It's so simple, and yet so complicated. He wants to show Draco what it's like to give in to pleasure, rather than having it taken from him. He knows it's also the hardest for Draco to reconcile. Submission under force comes easy for the Slytherin, especially when he feels that's all he's worth. This kind of pleasure, slow and syrupy-sweet, burgeoning with honeyed emotion is something Harry knows Draco will have to learn to take.

Harry's going to enjoy teaching him. Because Draco is worth so much more than flogging and rough play. He deserves more than a steely hand and an iron-willed Dom.

He moves to the nape of Draco's neck, burying his nose in the fine, silky hair, mouthing at him as if he will learn everything about the man by taste alone. He bites along the line of his shoulders, teasing and tasting, alternating back and forth between right and left, causing Draco to pant and shudder.

The small, tinkling noise gains his attention, and he glances up to see Draco's hands wrapped around the frame in a white-knuckled grip. He's trembling, trying so hard to keep still that the chain is rattling against the metal. Harry soothes with a shush and a lick to the top of his spine. He starts there and begins to work lower, licking his way down, branching out to bite at the sides of his torso every now and then. The random stings make Draco jerk in response, but Harry slides his tongue over the marks, sucking sharply for no other purpose than to hear Draco's cries. His back is littered with bright red splotches, some more purple than red, and Harry's cock hardens at the thought of seeing those marks on Draco tomorrow.

Harry's hands slide down the frame as he goes. The only part of him that touches Draco is his lips, and Draco's taste burns on his tongue like sweet fire. Draco's scent and taste swirl around his head in a fog, and Harry has to close his eyes and take a deep breath to keep his focus. His tongue swipes a lazy figure just over Draco's tailbone, slow and methodical, and when he presses it flat over the top of his crack, Draco lets out a keening wail.

Something snaps inside Harry at the noise. It's high-pitched and full of want and frustration, and it tugs at the corners of Harry's soul. The sound threatens Harry's self-control, and he wants to shuck his trousers, bury himself balls deep in Draco's arse and fuck that noise out of him until his voice is raw and ragged. In a frenzy, he attacks the globes of Draco's arse—kissing, licking, biting, sucking—over and over until Draco begins to shake uncontrollably. He bites down hard where the curve of buttock meets the inside of his thigh, where the skin is paper thin and dotted with nerve endings.

Draco's head jerks back and he howls, and Harry can see the drops of moisture that have leaked from his cock onto the floor. His balls are drawn up tight against his body, and Harry dips his head to snake his tongue out to dart over them. The rattling chains grow louder, because now Draco's trembling at every point of restraint. The line of his body is taut, defining the outline of long, lean muscle.

Draco is beautiful like this, perched on the edge of orgasm. Submitting, but at the same time unwilling to cross that line and give into oblivion.

"Easy," Harry says, kissing down the backs of Draco's legs. "You're doing so well. You're so beautiful, Draco. So beautiful," Harry murmurs against his skin. His voice has a calming effect, and the rattling dwindles.

Draco's head lolls forward as he gasps for breath, and Harry continues his path, finally reaching that hollow of ankle that tempted him before. He noses around the restraint to lick up underneath it, and takes a moment to catch his own breath.

He lets go of the frame and crawls around on all fours to Draco's front. His eyes flick upward to find Draco staring down at him. His pupils are blown wide with desire, face flushed from his cheeks down to his chest. Sweat drips down between the defined cut of his torso to pool and drip from the hollow of his navel. His cock is dark and red, rock hard and leaking. He seems a little surprised to see Harry on his hands and knees in front of him, as if it is the one place he can't ever imagine Harry deigning to be.

This is what he wants Draco to realize. That power is not defined by position. That control is not always domineering.

And the disbelief in Draco's eyes tells Harry it's a start.

Harry shifts until he's centered between Draco's feet, and then slowly, deliberately, reverently, kisses the tops of Draco's feet in turn. It's feather light, this worship, and Harry bends with a deference and veneration he's never felt before. He's never prostrated himself before a sub, and he realizes it's because he's never been with anyone who deserved it as much as Draco. He's always taken care of his partners, but this is a gesture of trust that was unthinkable before—a testament to how deeply he's affected by Draco.

He kisses his way up Draco's legs—over his shins and knees in turn—in a long, protracted sweep of lips and tongue. The scent of Draco's arousal is thick in the air, bittersweet and salty, and it makes Harry's mouth water. He's careful not to let any part of him brush against the straining of Draco's cock, and Draco whimpers as Harry bypasses it for the junction of where groin meets thigh. Harry closes his eyes and inhales deeply at this narrow strip of sensitized skin, committing Draco's scent and taste to memory.

He licks it because he can.

From here Harry takes his time, drawing out every pass of his mouth, every flick of his tongue. He bites his way up over Draco's torso, nipping at the ridges of his abdominals. Draco's panting so much his upper body is working like a bellows, in and out, over and over again.

Harry's mouth slides across Draco's chest, stopping to lavish attention on the tightened nubs, which wrings more of those delicious noises out of Draco's throat. His cock is as hard as Draco's, and it's becoming increasingly more difficult to keep his body from leaning in to press them together. He kisses up Draco's neck, letting his tongue trail through Draco's sweat and the remnants of his own saliva. It's a mixture that is uniquely theirs, and Harry wonders how the flavor will change with the addition of Draco's come.

He mouths underneath Draco's chin, and Draco's head falls back on a moan that vibrates onto Harry's lips. Harry smiles at the wanton sound.

"Do you have any idea how sexy you are right now?" he murmurs against Draco's throat. "How unbelievably gorgeous you look? Tied up here, just waiting for me to kiss you properly?" Harry's hands reach up over Draco's and grab the frame. "So patient, taking my kisses when I know you want more." He moves on to Draco's cheeks, licking over his face with the point of his tongue, dragging it over the arch of his brow, planting tiny, butterfly kisses down the bridge of his nose. Harry lets his lips ghost over Draco's eyelids, grazes his teeth over Draco's temples. He lets his mouth wander and worship over the high forehead, before coming back down to suck an earlobe into his mouth. He bites down and tugs, and Draco's whole body seizes. For a second, Harry thinks Draco might have lost his control.

"Pl—please, Harry," Draco rasps. His hips thrust forward, but Harry leans back just in time.

"No touching yet, baby. Not until I say." The endearment feels fond and sweet on his lips, not the saccharine, infantile appellation it used to be with others.

Draco chokes back a sob, but nods in assent. Blond fringe is plastered to his forehead with sweat, obscuring his bottomless gray gaze as his head tips forward. Their cheeks almost touch, and the heat that's rolling off Draco in waves is charged—electric—and Harry thinks the air could spark between them and combust at any moment. He's taken this as far as it can go, and his cock is throbbing in his trousers to _just bloody get on with it_. He's waited this long for a taste of Draco's mouth, waited this long to see Draco come undone again.

"Look at me, Draco. Show me that pretty face. I want to see how much you want it."

Draco's head lifts slowly, and his breathing is shallow, like it's taking everything he's got to make his neck move. His lashes flutter, and those dilated slate eyes come up to catch Harry's. His nostrils are flaring as his jaw clamps shut. Harry can tell he's trying to get his breathing under control. He's trembling all over, shaking like the last leaf on a tree, hanging onto the metal frame as if he'll buckle without it.

"Tell me you want it." Harry hears the unusual grate to his own voice, but he's not really surprised. Nobody's ever aroused him as much as Draco.

Draco's mouth falls open, panting, and his tongue darts out to swipe over his lips. It's a blatant invitation, and Harry's just about ready to accept.

"Kiss me, Harry."

That's all it takes.

Harry's mouth crashes into Draco's, and the chains rattle furiously against the metal as their chests collide. The kiss is volatile, a ragged tangle of lips, teeth, and tongue, certainly not indicative of the finesse Harry normally possesses. But he doesn't care about that now. Doesn't care about the seductive, teasing games his mouth could play on Draco's. All that matters is the completion of the circuit, Harry's lips on Draco's. They're both gasping and Draco's moaning like he's dying or being born again, and it's a carnal sound that trips the last of Harry's resolve.

Harry slams his hips forward and grinds his cock into Draco's.

Draco's cry of orgasm is sobbed into Harry's mouth, and his entire body bucks like he's being electrocuted. Harry feels the warm wetness seep into his trousers, and the knowledge that Draco has been completely unmade triggers his cock into bursting. He comes hard, still licking into Draco's mouth, with white lights flashing behind his eyes.

He pulls back to gauge Draco's state of mind. Draco's eyes are glassy and blissed out, and he's sagging a bit, but otherwise seems to be in a healthy mental state. Until his eyes look down and see the smear of milky white fluid over Harry's groin.

"Oh, God—I'm s—sorry," he stammers. "You didn't tell—"

Harry gathers him close, wrapping his arms around Draco's neck. "Shh, no, no—you're fine. You did beautifully. You did exactly what I wanted you to." He rubs a hand up Draco's nape, threading his fingers through the damp strands of hair. Draco rests his chin on Harry's shoulder, and Harry can feel some tension bleeding back into his body. "What is it?" he whispers.

Draco nuzzles close to his ear. "Was I good?"

The question is laced with quiet insecurity.

Harry steps back and reaches for the buckle at Draco's left wrist. He unfastens it and takes Draco's hand. Harry turns his hand over and brushes a sweet kiss on the palm before guiding it beneath the waistband of his trousers. He places Draco's hand over his spent cock and squeezes.

Draco's eyebrows shoot up and he stares at Harry in wordless surprise as his fingers slide through the evidence of his orgasm. Draco's fingers curl to cup him gently, and he allows it.

Draco's earned touch. The look of sheer wonder on his face has earned everything.

"You feel that?" Harry asks. "That's what you do to me. Kissing you, watching you, feeling you respond—that's what happens, Draco. You have me coming in my trousers like a schoolboy. You did that. As much as you think I have power over you—" he thrust his cock forward for emphasis, "—that's the power you have over me."

Draco is silent, but the gleam of pride and affection in his eyes speaks volumes.

Harry releases him from the restraints, and they head back into the bedroom. The shower is already running in the bathroom, and Draco commits himself into Harry's aftercare with a sigh and a soft smile.

The bed is turned down and the lights are low. Harry slides Draco under the sheets and slips in beside him. He spends several long minutes watching Draco sleep before gathering him up in his arms and curling around him. Sleep is easy to come after that.

OOOOOO

Narcissa rouses from sleep, limbs heavy and sated. Her eyes blink up into the dimly lit room, focusing after a brief moment. Neville is pressed close against her side and the heat of his body seeps into her skin. She soaks in his warmth like a sponge, as if she can draw it inside and keep it there to chase away a future chill. His long, muscular arm pins her to the mattress, not with force, but with a gentle, grounding pressure that only adds to the lingering ache in her bones. The fine hairs on his forearm tickle underneath her breasts as her chest rises and falls with each breath.

There is a stirring in her heart, a querulous resignation that seeks attention. She knows from experience it will not be denied. She eases out from underneath Neville, careful not to jostle him. He stirs and shifts with a snuffle against the pillow, but does not wake. Her dressing gown swishes with a whisper as she ties it around her naked body and pads on silent feet to a door on the opposite side of her room. A door she hasn't opened in a very long time.

Unfinished business lies on the other side of the ornately carved mahogany. Business she's resigned herself to ignore. But stubborn Black blood flows through her veins, proud and defiant, and if she's learned anything from her wayward cousin, it's that unfinished business eats at the soul. Narcissa spares a glance over her shoulder for Neville, sleeping so peacefully between her sheets, and she knows that if they are to have any sort of future together, then some doors must open before they can close.

She opens the door and steps inside, leaving it cracked behind her. A wandless wave of her hand lights the room, and soon it is bright enough to venture inside.

Lucius's adjoining suite is the same as he left it, only now the furnishings are covered in muslin. A fine layer of dust coats everything; it is the one room in the Manor that the house-elves are not allowed to enter. She turns her gaze above the fireplace and comes forward. Her hand trembles for only a second before she reaches for the edge of the fabric and pulls.

Lucius Malfoy blinks calmly at her from his wingback chair. The gilded portrait frame glows in the warm light of the room.

"Well," he drawls, and it sends a familiar twinge of icy fingers down her spine, "I wondered how long it would take before you came to me."

"Not long enough," Narcissa replies with a lift of her chin. She will not allow him to rankle her, and her eyes narrow in response.

Lucius stands, unfurling himself from the chair, no doubt to tower above her. As if the portrait isn't already high enough on the wall. No pedestal is ever too high for Lucius Malfoy.

"Where is Draco?" he demands. "Where is my son?" His tone is imperious. Even in death, he never fails to make her remember where she stands in his esteem.

"Your son?" she scoffs with a bark. "You have no son. He ceased to be your son the moment you let that madman brand him like cattle."

There is a small tremor around the corner of his left eye, but nothing more.

"Then why are you here?"

Dismissed, as always. But she's learned of her own worth enough these past years.

"My reasons are my own."

He laughs, and it's still the same throaty chuckle that tears at her heart and makes her gorge rise. The same condescending chuckle he always gives whether he's killing muggles or fucking Death Eaters in their bed. "Does guilt rob you of your sleep these days? Can your traitorous soul not find rest?"

"You speak so casually of souls, husband. One would think you had one for comparison."

"Ah," he says, inclining his head to assess her, "there's your shrewish tongue. How easily you return to the uncouth nature of your blood without me to gentle you. Lady Malfoy shows her true colors at last."

Narcissa's hands curl into fists at her side. "I am no Malfoy. You knew my nature when you bought my Black blood, like you bought my lineage and my fortune. It's too late for either of us to regret our choices."

The sneer that crosses his face is hate personified. "Yes, I bought you. And you were never worth the price I paid."

This time it is she who laughs. "I find it amusing that you still posture." Her hands relax and she breathes out to continue, "There is no one here to properly cower before you. No one to shiver at your great arrogance and delusions of power. There are no whores here to impress into our bed." She clucks at him, "How the mighty have fallen."

His jaw locks as the rest of his face seethes with anger. "Bring me my son."

It's amazing at how little his words affect her now. She's been under his thumb for so long that even dead he manages to keep her shackled to his memory. But no more. A terrible weight lifts from her heart. The spell breaks, the curtain is drawn, and she can finally see what's eluding her. Freedom. Truth. And it's exactly what she needs.

"I should have killed you a long time ago," she says evenly. Lucius only snorts in response. "But I didn't. You earned your reprieve with one simple act. You gave me Draco." Her smile is cruel. "You owe him your life. You owe that boy everything."

"I owe no one!" Lucius hisses, fury erupting over his features. A pointed finger slashes in the air. "You betrayed me!"

"You're goddamned right I did!" she shouts back. "I survived. I survived the Dark Lord, and I survived you. Now I'm going to live. Every breath I take from now on is a breath I take to spite you. This is the last time you will look upon my face, because the dead do not live here. I only hope that Hell treats you as favorably as you have treated us."

"I'm glad to be rid of you. You always were a cold and hateful bitch, Narcissa."

"No." Her voice is solid and strong, and she finally feels like the rock she's had to be for so long. "For the entirety of our marriage, I was a mirror. I only reflected that which was presented to me. So if you don't like what you see, Lucius Malfoy, you have only yourself to blame." She lifts her chin higher than ever, and isn't surprised that it's not defiance she's feeling in her bones, but a final sense of resolution. Her voice rings out clear and without waver, stronger than it's ever been. "When history opens its pages to the name Malfoy, it will be Draco's face they see. It will be Draco's triumphs recorded, and this world will bask in his light. He will take your name and vault it in ways you could only dream. He will make it his own. And you—you will be nothing but an ugly footnote overlooked at the bottom of an unread page. You will have no legacy. You will not endure. And it's high time I cleansed this house of the last of your pervasion."

She snaps her fingers and Blinky pops in.

"Blinky is being here, Miss Cissa."

Narcissa keeps her husband's furious gaze as the frost in her voice turns glacial. "The portrait, Blinky."

"Yes?"

"Burn it. And bury the ash. I don't want even a speck of him left in this house."

Blinky bows her head. "Right aways, Miss Cissa."

She doesn't spare another glance for Lucius and heads for the door. Neville is standing there, bare-chested and mussed from sleep, with eyes bright enough for her to know he's heard the whole exchange. Eyes only for her. He doesn't even glance at the portrait. As she nears, he pulls the door wider to allow her through.

"I'm sorry," she says quietly, placing her hand on his cheek. "I should have told you."

"Shh," Neville responds, putting a finger to her lips. "It's okay. You don't owe me an explanation. Not now. Not ever." His tender smile and quiet strength is almost too much to bear.

"I don't deserve you," she whispers into the warmth of his chest. He pushes her back to smile at her, and it's all she can do to keep her knees from buckling.

"You're right," he chuckles, and his laughter touches her in a way that Lucius never could. "You deserve more."

Her arms wind around his neck without thought. "Take me to bed."

"With pleasure."

Neville scoops her up bridal style and carries her back into her quarters. Behind him, the door ripples and slams shut on its own. Instead of a bang, it sounds like an exultation.


	22. Chapter 22

Harry scribbles his signature on the contract with a flourish, rolls it up, and ties it to Pennywort's outstretched leg. She wobbles a bit and inclines her head, waiting for the affection she thinks she is rightfully due. When Harry takes longer than she prefers to give her a good scratch, she snaps at him and ruffles her feathers. Big, round eyes blink back at him without apology.

"You're a menace," he laughs. "Adorable and precious, but a menace all the same."

She lets out an indignant squawk and is gone.

It's been a week since the dinner party, and in that time, much has happened. Harry's relationship with Draco has been fraught with more contact. Specifically, slow, deep kisses in the morning, not to mention the impromptu snogging sessions in shadowy corners all over the Manor. He doesn't feel the need to progress to sex, instead, taking the time to acclimate Draco to the wonders of affectionate anticipation. They're comfortable right now, and the sense of ease between them is more than satisfactory. More will come, he has no doubt. There is no need to rush. He's not going anywhere.

When he hasn't seen Draco for meals or been accosting him in corridors, he's been holed up in his office with his head stuck in the Floo. Harry thinks Draco's come to decisions regarding the Malfoy trust, but hasn't pressed for details. He'll let Draco come to him in his own time. And Harry has all the time in the world.

He's gotten back into painting, and reached out to Luna at the prospect of opening a gallery in Hogsmeade. She readily agreed, and even made a trip over to the Manor to see Harry's studio and catch up. Luna's wise and accepting soul worked its magic on both Malfoys, and soon they took tea in the solarium as if nothing had ever happened. The Manor itself was pleased beyond measure at her forgiveness, thrumming happily as Harry and Draco gave her a proper tour. Now that he's sent Pennywort back with the signed contract, it wouldn't be long before their venture would come to fruition.

The addition of Neville at the breakfast table five days out of seven came as no surprise to anyone, and Harry thinks the Floo between Narcissa's chambers and Hogwarts should just turn itself into a revolving door and be done with it. Either that, or just move in.

Harry turns to get back to painting when Blinky pops in, her sunny yellow ruffles and bright eyes making her glow with happiness.

"Master Harry's Weasley is being to see you."

"Thank you, Blinky. Show him in here, please. And you look positively radiant today, I might say."

She giggles and blushes to the tips of her long, bow-laden ears before popping back out.

Ron strolls in a few seconds later, disheveled and out of sorts.

"I'm in the shit, Harry. The absolute shit."

"You look like it," Harry responds, smiling. "Sit down, you berk. What's happened?"

Ron flops down onto the sofa Draco insisted upon adding to the room for his own comfort and groans. He tips back his head and slings an arm over his face. "I take back everything negative thing I ever said about your kind of relationships."

Harry swivels on his stool to face him. "That's ominous. Girl trouble?"

Ron shifts his arm and opens one eye to glare at him. "You don't know the half of it."

"So, go on, spit it out."

"I slept with Parkinson."

"What?" Harry leaps from his stool and stalks over to rip Ron's arm off his face. "What the hell were you thinking?"

Ron sits up as Harry plonks down beside him, not shrinking from Harry's disapproving frown. "It's not like that," he starts. "I mean, it's okay, I guess, but—"

"How the fuck is it okay, you guess? You cheated on Hermione, you git!"

Ron's face turns sheepish. "Really, it's okay." He pauses and Harry lets him have the moment. "Because 'Mione slept with her, too."

"What? To get back at you?" Harry snarls. "Jesus, Ron—"

Ron shrugs. "Not separately," he offers.

Harry's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "You mean together?"

Ron nods.

"You had a threesome with your wife and Pansy Parkinson?"

"Yeah."

Harry rubs a hand over his face. "How did this even happen?"

"I don't know," Ron whines, slipping back down into the cushions. "It just happened. Hermione wanted to talk to her more about this new shop she's opening, and she invited her round." Ron glanced up at him. "We had her over for dinner. Then we had her on the kitchen table. And again in the sitting room. I think I fucked up my back. If this continues, it will likely kill me."

"Possibly, but I don't think you'll die happier."

"No doubt."

Harry slumps his head and closes his eyes, but soon his shoulders are shaking with quiet laughter. Ron hits him with a pillow in protest.

"Oi! This is my life you're laughing about!"

"I know," Harry says, still laughing. He snatches the pillow from Ron's hands. "And it's funny."

Ron groans again. "What am I going to do, Harry?"

"About what? Was this a one-off, or is it happening again?"

"Merlin, I don't fucking know. You're the expert when it comes to shit like this." Harry cocks an eyebrow in response and Ron hedges, "You know, odd—er, _things_. Experiences. Situations." He gestures vaguely. "Less…than conventional sexual practices."

"You keep saying 'kettle', but all I'm seeing is 'pot'."

"Oh, fuck off, you know what I mean."

Harry sighs and nudges at him with a foot. "Do you want it to happen again? Both of you? And what about Pansy? How did you leave things?"

He shrugs again. "Fine, I suppose. When she left, there were goodbye kisses and hugs, but none of that, 'I'll owl you' awkwardness. She didn't seem concerned at all."

Harry shakes his head. "So, you're saying that you had fabulous, and I'm assuming it was fabulous, sex with two women, everybody left happy, and there was no weirdness at all? Is that what you're saying?"

"Essentially, yeah."

Harry snorts. "Yes, I can see how this would be troublesome."

Ron flips two fingers at him. "You know, I thought you'd be a lot more helpful. I see that Malfoy's charm is contagious around here."

Harry grins. "It kind of is." He shifts and pokes at Ron again to get his full attention. "So…how was it?"

"Two women. One Ron. The maths pretty much have to equal amazing. Even if I just got to sit there and watch." He laughs. "Seriously, though, and this isn't to disparage 'Mione in the least—" Ron pauses as if he's waiting for permission. "It was the best sex of my life. Is that horrible? I think it should feel horrible on some level considering how much I love my wife."

Harry shakes his head. "I don't think I want the details as to how it all happened, but now that is has…how are you and Hermione? This sort of thing can change a relationship."

Ron's head falls back onto the sofa. "Yeah. We had a—" he makes finger quotes in the air, "talk." He laughs. "Frankly, when she brought it up, it didn't send me into a cold sweat like it normally does. You know how she gets when she's in 'discussion mode'."

Harry chuckles with him. "Yeah, I've never envied you that."

"But we sat down after Par—Pansy, I'm supposed to call her Pansy now—left. We talked about it, and it was different afterward than we thought. It was, I dunno, _special_. It really was. I mean, she stayed for a while. She didn't just get up and dressed and run out. We lounged naked on the couch for hours." He sighs. "We had more sex. The two of us. I felt closer to her than ever. And 'Mione said she felt the same way, that what happened with Pansy didn't detract from us, it made it better." He turns to Harry with mild confusion. "Is that fucked up?"

"No. Because whatever is good between the two of you isn't wrong, as long as you're not hurting someone else in the process." He eyes Ron good to drive the meaning home.

Ron has the decency to shoot his eyes to the floor and murmur, "Yeah, I get it now."

"And Pansy hung out after? That's a good sign that she was comfortable."

"Comfortable?" Ron snorts. "The woman was laid out between us on the sofa like a damned buffet table. Like the spot was hers all along." He closes his eyes and blows out a soft breath. "Maybe it is."

Harry can tell Ron is on the verge of a heavy confession, and knowing the man like he does, he knows that heartfelt expressions don't come easy for his friend. Harry relaxes and waits him out to see if Ron finally opens up.

"Hermione and I, despite our differences, have always worked well as a couple. I mean, at heart, we are two totally fundamental people, right? But, we balance each other out. Even though there's so much we have in common, there are things about us that keep us separate. Individual. That's not a bad thing," he rushes to say, "It keeps us on our toes, you know? And for all that we are one unit, there's always been this tiny space that, I dunno, divides us somehow." He rubs a resigned hand over his face. "But Pansy—I mean, she just came over and stepped right into it and filled it. Like it was nothing. We came together, the three of us, and there was no awkwardness, no 'where should I put my hands' or 'am I getting this right'. She came in and we just…clicked. We clicked. A lot. There was a lot of clicking. I think we traumatized Crookshanks and ruined the good rug. My mother gave us that rug. I shudder to think what would happen if she knew what we did on it." Harry laughs with him as he continues, "She just takes up those parts that Hermione and I can't come together on. I mean, there we are, all three of us, naked on that fucking couch, her sprawled out between us. She's got her head in 'Mione's lap, and they're kissing and stroking each other's hair, talking about Shakespeare, and kitten heels, and quarterly fiscal earnings. Just all cozied up together, gorgeous and happy. And the next second, Pansy's poking me with a toe, giving me shit about the Cannons, and demanding a foot rub."

"So what did you do?"

He looks at Harry as if he's asked the stupidest question on earth. "I've just had the best sex of my life, I'm naked on the sofa with two of the most gorgeous women on the planet, and it all feels right somehow. What do you think I did? I rubbed her damn feet and loved every second of it."

"Again," Harry says with a smile, "where's the problem?"

Ron gives him a half-hearted smile, "Shit if I know."

"You going to see her again?" Harry asks, even though he already knows the answer.

"Already have. She's coming by again at the weekend."

Harry shoves at him. "So you only came by to brag, then?"

Ron beams back at him. "Might have done."

"Arse."

"Look, the pool of friends I have to share this with is painfully shallow. If anybody would understand, it would be you."

"Even though I'm gay, and have no interest in women whatsoever?"

Ron shoves him back. "Oi! I've had the good graciousness to apologize for my idiocy where your love life is concerned, and even gone so far as to, as much as it galls me, _make nice_ with Malfoy. The least you can do is be happy and supportive of the sudden and apparent change to my sex life."

"Fine, fine," Harry chuckles. He clears his throat and says soberly, "You're the luckiest man I know."

Ron bursts out laughing. "You suck at this. That is all." He claps Harry on the back and grasps his shoulder. "I know this is different from the kind of relationship you have with Malfoy, but I can see where you're coming from. And Malfoy's not so bad, I know. If he was, you wouldn't still be here. I talked to him the other night at dinner. We've made our peace. I'm happy for you. And him, the pointy git."

Harry has to swallow back the lump in his throat. "Thanks, mate. That means a lot. You don't know how much. You're family, and Draco is important to me. I just want you all to get along without it being difficult."

"Nah," Ron waves him off. "I've got my own Slytherin to deal with now. And Pansy and Draco are still tight. So I imagine it's going to be a flat-out riot from now on." He shakes Harry for good measure. "Think about it—Hermione, Pansy, _and_ Draco. Merlin help us. We're gonna need it."


	23. Chapter 23

Harry leans in and makes one more swipe across the canvas with the brush, satisfied at last. He puts the palette and brush down and gently eases the painting off the easel to place it with the others on the drying table at the other end of the room. He's got a few more in mind before the gallery opens next month. Between what he's already completed and Luna's hoard of finished sculptures, it should make for a fine opening show. He's been contacted by several artists already, and thinks one or two of them would be a good fit alongside their work. It certainly looks promising.

"It's a good thing Mother's out with Neville and won't be home for dinner. She'd never allow you in the dining room like that," Draco says, strolling in with a smirk. "You're covered in paint. Blinky would have a heart attack if you smeared one of the chairs with your—" he makes a show of craning his next to get a look at Harry's backside, "—colorful arse."

"Don't get cheeky," Harry grins with a glint in his eye. "Or I'll have reason to color _your_ arse instead."

Draco's step falters just slightly as the implication hits home.

_Well. Isn't that interesting?_

Draco maneuvers around the easel to stand just behind Harry's shoulder and quietly peruses the canvas. It's nothing like he's painted before—still lifes, an attempt at portraiture and the lot—but he's taken a step outside his box and created something he finds he's remarkably proud of. He's certain it isn't to popular esthetic, but that really means very little. The bright swirls of formless color speak to him in a way he's not going to bother to understand. Harry merely accepts the muse for what it is.

He feels Draco pull in a long breath and waits for the fond, yet slightly scathing critique of his ability he knows is bound to come forth. Draco's never been above taking the piss when it comes to Harry.

"What is it?" Draco's voice is soft and breathy.

"Magic," Harry replies. "At least what it feels like to me."

A light hand rests on Harry's shoulder. "I can see it now. It's beautiful."

When Harry turns and sets his eyes on Draco's, something unfurls in Harry's chest and bottoms out in his toes. Draco's eyes are soft and silver and the slight purse of his lips in thought sends a shiver of want throughout Harry's body. Draco is breathtakingly beautiful. In any light, at any time of day, no matter the situation or context. And he belongs to Harry. The warmth that curls through him has a dark edge, one that trips the light fantastic between possession and _possession_. Harry's fairly certain his heart knows the difference between the two, but the curve of Draco's neck and the long line of his warm body, standing so close, has his body struggling to remember.

He wants Draco. He wants Draco _now_.

"Strip."

The terse command startles Draco into attention. "Wh-what?" His voice falters a touch and Harry has to stop himself from smirking.

Harry cocks his head. "Do I need to repeat myself?"

That shoves Draco into action. "No—no, sir." Long elegant fingers frantically start working and in seconds, he's naked before Harry's hungry gaze. Draco clasps his hands behind his back and waits, and Harry can already see the flush of arousal creeping across his pale skin.

_Lovely._

He can't wait any longer; Draco's lips are red and ripe for kissing, and he takes them because they are his. Draco's soft gasp against his mouth is perfect, and Harry's hands pull him closer until their bodies are pressed together. Draco's warmth seeps through Harry's clothes, adding fuel to the fire that is already burning within him. He's covered in paint—it must be smearing all over Draco with the way he's writhing in Harry's arms, but Harry doesn't care because the pungent scent of acrylic is mixing with the sharp lemony fragrance that is Draco's alone, and it's tipping Harry over the edge.

Harry breaks off the kiss and turns Draco around. "Go sit on the sofa. Get comfortable. And spread those legs."

It's not exactly a run, but Draco's arse bounces just the same. It's a pleasure to watch him go.

He sits as instructed. The soles of his feet are planted on the floor, knees open wide, displaying himself confidently without shame. He's trembling slightly, but it's all anticipation. Harry thinks maybe this is a good time to reinforce some trust. Or maybe he just wants another good look at Draco's arse.

"I've changed my mind." He doesn't get to finish the statement, because Draco's face absolutely _falls_. It hurts Harry to see the dejected expression cross Draco's beautiful face. It's a little upsetting that Draco will crack so easily, and take the slightest sentence out of context before Harry can even finish speaking. Yes, it's time to reinforce some trust.

Harry shakes his head. "You didn't let me finish, Draco."

Draco's gaze lowers. "I'm sorry, sir."

"I've changed my mind about your position. Turn around. Knees on the cushion. Hands on the back."

Draco rises slowly and turns, kneeling on the cushions and placing his hands as directed. His head falls forward and his eyes close again. His breathing is rapid, but he's breathing in heavily through his nose to calm himself. To trust Harry. It's a pleasing sight.

Harry moves closer, stripping his shirt off as he nears. He wipes paint off his hands onto his chest as his eyes fixate on the muscled curve of Draco's arse. Harry runs a hand across Draco's flank, and his eyes flutter open at Harry's touch.

Harry leans over and whispers between them, "Arch your back. Yes," he sighs, rubbing small circles on Draco's hip. "That's it. Stick that pretty arse of yours in the air. I want to see it."

Draco shudders as Harry lets his fingers trail over the warm skin. He kneads against Draco's arse cheeks, and one of his thumbs dips in to brush lightly over the hole. Draco moans.

Harry drops to his knees and shoves his face in Draco's arse without ceremony, licking upward from his balls in one long, wet stripe.

Draco _howls_.

The sound goes straight to Harry's cock.

He works his tongue across the rim, and brings the flat of his right hand down with a loud slap.

Draco bucks and gasps, and Harry changes the angle and does it again, finishing with a hard squeeze to the meaty cheek. Draco whimpers, and Harry rubs his lips over the tight hole.

He can feel sweat blossoming on Draco's skin, and he can feel Draco's arse cheek warming with the rush of blood at the striking point. He turns his face and scrapes his teeth along the afflicted spot, biting down on the pink right cheek as his left delivers a punishing blow to the other side.

Draco jerks again and hisses. Harry catches a glimpse of Draco's cock as it bobs down between his legs, hard and red. It's left drops of wetness on the cushions.

Three more alternating slaps to Draco's arse and Harry's pushing his face back to lap at the now twitching pucker. The taste of him has Harry salivating, and he abandons any pretense of finesse, slurping and sucking at Draco's hole as he attempts to push the tip of his tongue inside.

Draco rocks against Harry's mouth as his legs shake to keep him upright. Harry feels his body flexing to maintain the posture.

"Keep still, Draco. You're doing so good," Harry purrs between filthy, overly-saturated swipes of tongue.

Draco keens at the praise, and Harry's hands give him a reassuring squeeze.

His arse is, quite literally, a sopping mess. Harry's spit is smeared all over the crack of Draco's arse, over his hole, dripping down over his balls. He rubs the bridge of his nose in hard, tilting his head to nip and suckle until Draco's high-pitched whine turns into a lust-filled moan.

"I could make you come like this, couldn't I? I could eat you from the inside out and have your cock explode without a single touch." Harry lets his voice drop low, rumbling across Draco's skin. "I could spend hours here, stretching you out, fucking your sweet little hole with my tongue, making you beg for release." Draco's gasping in short, breathy whuffs. "Would you beg for me, Draco? Would you beg for my tongue in your arse?"

"Ye—yes, sir. Pl—please."

The sound is broken, but it's not what Harry really wants. He wants to impress himself upon Draco, to fill his every sense with Harry's presence. To envelope him in pleasure. To extract every last piece of Draco's self-control. Until Draco knows nothing but Harry. Feels nothing but Harry.

Harry backs away and stands. "Turn over."

Draco flips around and Harry gets a good look at his face. The man is wrecked. Sweaty, flushed, and glassy-eyed. There are smears of wet paint across his chest and thighs from where they pressed together earlier, leaving colorful, patchy smears on Draco's alabaster skin, hiding in the faint ridges of the scars on his chest. The halo of normally perfectly-coiffed hair is damp and mussed, his lips are red and parted, and his cock—his cock is long and hard, purpled with need, wet and shiny at the tip.

In a heartbeat, Harry is on him, knees on either side of his hips, straddling him, pressing him back into the couch. Harry's left hand comes up to curl around Draco's throat, the hollow between his thumb and forefinger slotting underneath Draco's jaw with increasing pressure. Draco's eyes go wide and startled, and his whole body tenses.

"Relax."

Draco remains still.

He presses harder until Draco's breath catches. " _Relax_."

Harry leans in, letting his body weight come down on the hand around Draco's throat, forcing gray eyes to meet him own. Draco will give in. Draco needs to trust.

Harry kisses him, soft and sweet at first, but with more passion as Draco opens for him. The first taste of Draco's tongue is heady, and he gets a little moan for his effort.

"Trust me," he murmurs against Draco's lips. "Do you trust me?"

He pulls back, and Draco nods shakily at him, licking at his lips.

"I trust you—Harry."

"Good boy." Harry smiles down at him. "Now give me that arse."

Draco spreads wider, and Harry shuffles on top to accommodate, keeping his left hand firmly around Draco's neck. His right hand dips down, bypassing Draco's cock to fondle at his balls for a moment before he slips a finger into Draco's arse. Spit makes for terrible lube, and he only presses into the first knuckle. He has no intention of doing this dry, not ever, so a whispered spell gets Draco's passage slick and ready. The rest of his finger eases the rest of the way in.

Draco's head falls back, and Harry squeezes to regain his attention.

"Look at me, Draco. Just keep looking at me."

Draco is hot and tight and Harry strokes him twice before edging in a second finger. Draco tenses, and Harry's hand curls tighter as he fucks deeper with his fingers. Draco's pupils are blown wide, leaving only a tiny ring of stormy gray around the black center.

Harry raises higher on his knees, bearing more of his weight on his left arm. He's not squeezing any further, but rather letting his weight bear down on Draco in eased increments. His fingers curl, brushing against Draco's prostate, and he jerks upward on a strangled hiss. He pushes in harder with his fingers, faster, adding a third on the next upstroke. The pressure on Draco's body is tremendous, but so is the pleasure, he knows. All Draco has to do is lay back and take it.

The second the third finger pushes in and rubs against his sweet spot with force, his hands come up to wrap around Harry's wrist. Harry kisses him and increases the pace. He's fucking into Draco's tight heat with as much force as he can muster, and Draco's grip on his wrist is bone-crushingly firm, but not panicked. He keeps his eyes on Harry, and Harry can see the maelstrom of emotion that swirls across his face.

Lust. Pleasure. Pain.

"Color."

Draco glances away for a second and swipes a thumb through some paint on his thigh. He smears it across his torso.

Green.

Harry tamps down the shout he wants to let loose and fucks Draco harder.

Finally, Draco's hands fall away to land on the cushion, palms upturned in supplication.

Submission.

Harry holds him tighter and tighter, bending Draco's body to his will, but he never takes his eyes off Harry.

"God, you're gorgeous," Harry whispers. "So beautiful." He smiles down, full of dark promise. "Give it to me, Draco. Give yourself to me."

Harry twists his fingers and batters at Draco's arse as he bears his weight on Draco once more. He knows there is nothing in Draco's field of vision but his face, nothing Draco's body can register but Harry. His weight, his scent, his taste. He is the only thing Draco can fathom at the moment. And it's right where Harry wants him.

"Come for me. I want to watch you come all over yourself while I fuck you with my fingers."Draco's mouth falls open on a strangled hiss as he comes, his cock spurting in thick, heated ropes between them.

He murmurs gentle praise into Draco's ear as he releases his neck and strokes him through the aftershocks. Draco's head falls against the back of the couch, eyes closed as he shudders. Harry eases his fingers from Draco's body and gives him a moment to recover.

Harry drinks in the sight of him. He's possibly the most beautiful thing Harry's ever seen.

When Draco's eyes open, he doesn't see the fuzzy, unfocused gaze he expects. Draco's eyes are bright, clear, and backlit by a fire that makes Harry's cock throb in his jeans. He also doesn't expect Draco to rise up and tumble him to the floor, but that's what he does, and before Harry can make sense of it, his jeans are around his knees and his cock is halfway down Draco's throat.

He should protest, he thinks, but he doesn't, because even on his back, Draco is giving him the control. Draco's hands wind around his and shove them in his hair, urging him to grasp and pull at the short, sweaty strands. Draco's mouth is a hot, wet vise, and he's sucking at Harry's cock like it's the only vocation he's ever known. It's fast and frantic, nothing but tight, slick heat and perfect pressure. Draco's swallowing his cock, choking himself on it, curling his fingers into Harry's thighs in contented bliss. His tongue curls along the shaft on the upstroke, and his throat ripples on the down, making Harry shout Draco's name in rapture.

Harry braces himself on one elbow, and tightens his grip in Draco's hair, pulling him off enough to leverage himself to fuck up into Draco's throat. Draco moans at that, a full-body sound that nourishes Harry's soul. Draco's urging him on, wanting it faster and deeper, and Harry complies until his orgasm screams up out of nowhere.

It hits him hard, like a live wire sparking at contact, and his body jerks as he comes down Draco's throat. As orgasms go, there is no anticipation, no build-up, just the sheer, raw strike of pleasure searing through him like a match thrown into a lake of kerosene. Draco swallows and tongues at him a few more times before collapsing. His head rests on Harry's thigh, and Harry's fingers unfurl to rake through his hair in a tender caress.

He doesn't know where the strength comes from, but he hauls Draco up and rolls him over to cover him with his body and kiss him breathless. The taste of himself is bitter on Draco's tongue, and he relishes in it, pulling back to rasp, "You're mine, Draco. Mine."

Draco doesn't open his eyes, but breathes out shakily through his mouth. His voice is rough, but this time it's the right kind of broken.

" _Yours_."


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I know this is a really short chapter. But a lot's about to happen, and I needed some logical breaking points, or this collection of scenes would go on forever. Thanks for your patience!

With all the bodies milling in and out of the gallery, Harry's fairly certain they're violating some sort of Ministry fire code. But with the Ministry's top brass lounging about swilling champagne like it's going out of style, he's pretty sure a fine won't be forthcoming.

The opening of "Grimoires in Gesso" is in full swing. It seems everyone has crawled out of the woodwork to take a gander at what The Savior of the Wizarding World has been up to. The fruits of his labor are hanging on the gallery walls for all to see (and purchase, Millicent Bulstrode is quick to remind him). He smiles at the thought of Luna's pushy girlfriend, and his eye manages to find her quite easily in the crowded gallery, happily taking galleons off patrons. She shakes hands and nods with a smile, pocketing the velvet pouches with practiced ease. Her head darts up and catches Harry staring, and she makes a beeline for him. She approaches him with a friendly glare.

"Do you have any idea of the mountain of cash we'd be rolling in if you did commission work like I told you to?"

Millie sounds remarkably like Pansy, only less-polished and with a bit more spite. Harry sips his pumpkin juice and smiles warmly at her.

"Don't start this again, Millie," he says, knowing the request is futile.

"I'm serious, Potter," she hisses, leaning in to his side. He's only "Potter" when she's annoyed. She smells like Luna—wet clay, cherries, and coal fire. It wouldn't surprise him if they had one off in the supply closet before they opened the doors. Luna's fond of recreational sex in odd places, and is even fonder of telling everyone about it. She has absolutely no filter, and Millie has no fucks to give about it. They're actually quite charming together.

"So am I."

Millie's eyes narrow and her mouth opens, no doubt to revisit the long-winded, profanity-laden lecture about creating heirloom pieces, artist recognition, and her and Luna's future financial stability, but he cuts her off with a hand.

"I'll think about it, yeah? How's that?" Harry offers her a genuine smile, but her expression doesn't change. She's not fooled, the Slytherin.

"There's a reason you made me gallery manager," Millie reminds him with a poke to the shoulder.

Harry nods his head in agreement. "Yes. You've a hell of a head for business, you appreciate art, and you're the only one who can corral your girlfriend when she goes off on a weird-arse tangent like insisting on parading around the gallery naked so patrons can see her 'at her most creative state'."

Millie looks chagrined. "Look, I got a robe on her, didn't I? There should be a medal in that, I think. Daft bint," she adds with a soft smile.

Over her shoulder, Harry sees a shock of white-blond hair, and the tiny glimpse makes something catch in his chest. As the crowd flows around Draco, another face comes into view. It's not surprising—it's expected, really—and Harry's body reacts accordingly. With complete and perfect calm.

He takes his leave of Millie with a kiss to the cheek and an apology, but when she tracks his line of sight, she waves him off and disappears into the throng of people. Harry hands off his half-empty glass of pumpkin juice to a passing floating tray and adjusts the line of his Muggle suit with a quick jerk to the cuffs and a smooth hand over his tie.

Harry's singular focus is the artfully tousled head of platinum, gleaming underneath the gallery's house lights. It's fitting, because that chiseled profile is a work of fucking art, more beautiful that any sculpture ever created by man or magic.

It's as if everything just falls away in the wake of the calm that thrums through his body. The crowd, the light, the noise—everything—dissipates, and Harry glides forward like a shark seamlessly cutting its way through the ocean. The bodies part for him as he walks, because nothing can stand in his way.

He feels a little like a shark as he approaches—shiny gray suit and cunning smile that's all teeth and deadly confidence. He knows he's slick as fuck when he sidles up to Draco and slides an arm around Draco's waist like there's a waiting space shaped just like Harry's arm.

Harry leans in to press a kiss to Draco's cool cheek. "Darling," he says with utter adoration.

He waits for Draco to turn and return his smile before loftily shifting his attention to Draco's conversant. Harry doesn't bother to incline his head in greeting.

"Zabini."


	25. Chapter 25

Blaise Zabini is a study in _sangfroid_. He looks absolutely unruffled at Harry's sudden presence at their side. It's either a Slytherin thing or a pureblood thing, Harry surmises, because Zabini affects a cool arrogance while Draco maintains a cool disdain. He's all polish and galleons in silk-embroidered robes, with strong, white teeth gleaming against smooth, dark skin. Rich brown eyes glitter as his gaze rakes over Draco hungrily—it's the look the hunter gives the rabbit that has slipped the snare.

Zabini is poised, fit, and commanding. Harry knows immediately by the set of his jaw and the line of his shoulders that the Italian is a special kind of dangerous. He's a man who enjoys being cruel for the sake of the twisted pleasure that cruelty alone can provide. He is incapable of remorse and regrets nothing. He's an arsehole of the highest caliber.

Harry wants to punch him in the face on general principle.

"Potter," Zabini drawls, "It appears the rumors are true, then." He shoots a darting glance at Draco. "Slumming with Death Eaters. How deliciously low."

Harry sighs and shakes his head. "Back a fortnight, and that's the best you can come up with? I must say I'm a little disappointed. I always thought you Slytherins were masters of the insult. Draco does better cursing out the garden gnomes."

"You said you arrived yesterday." Draco's chin lifts in accusation.

"Two days," Zabini says, and his eyes crinkle in a slight squint. "Potter is mistaken."

Harry sucks in a breath and barks out a laugh. "Oh no, I'm afraid I knew the exact moment you set foot on British soil. You've tried three times to access your seized vaults at Gringotts, been denied entry to La Cave twice, and consulted with no less than six Ministry lawyers in an attempt to do Merlin knows what—" Harry flicks a dismissive hand in the air, "I got bored with it and moved on." He looks to Draco and smiles warmly. "There are more important things that require my attention."

The repudiation in Harry's tone hits it mark. Zabini's face is blank for a moment, and then his lips curve into a cruel smile. "Attention?" he laughs derisively. "Yes, Draco's always been high maintenance. He's like a fat, spoiled housecat," he says with mocking spite. "Sooner bite you than look at you, but if you offer him a saucer of cream, he'll twine around your ankles and stick his arse in the air."

The denigration in the way Zabini looks at Draco when he speaks undoes the last of Harry's resolve. He feels Draco's slight stiffening and without looking at him, Harry knows that even though the mask hasn't cracked, a gentle flush has crept into Draco's cheeks, betraying his supposed shame to Zabini's sadistic delight.

Conviction sears like a brand into his heart as Harry realizes that no one will ever again make Draco suffer in that way. Because if they do, he'll AK the lot of them and skip happily to Azkaban for his crimes. It's probably not the healthiest train of thought, but he doesn't give two fucks about it.

What is crystal clear is that there is nothing Harry won't do to keep Draco from being hurt.

_Nothing._

And that starts right here, right now.

Harry unfurls his arm from behind Draco to menace forward and stare Zabini down. "Listen very carefully to what I'm about to say, because I'm only going to say it once. Leave Britain. Now, while you still can. Because there is nothing here for you. There is no circle that will welcome you, no establishment that will serve you. My name carries weight in places you cannot fathom, and from the moment you arrived, the word spread. You are _persona non grata_. You are _Untouchable_. You will find there is nowhere for you to set up housekeeping. No decent Dom will associate with you, and no self-respecting sub will go anywhere near you." Harry smiles, but the mirth doesn't reach his eyes. "But on the off-chance you find someone foolish enough to take you on, there's always this—" Harry's fingers flicker at his side, a glancing movement so quick, it's almost imperceptible, and a discreet ripple of magic settles over Zabini.

His eyes widen in shock and fear, and Draco's mouth falls open, equally dumbstruck.

"Wh—what have you done to me?" Zabini's voice is breathless and ragged.

"Let's call it... _insurance_ ," Harry says smoothly. "If you ever—and I mean, _ever_ —raise your hand in anger on a partner again, your magic will turn and visit upon you your intentions a hundredfold. The consequences of which could be quite nasty, or given your predilections—deadly, even. Wouldn't that be a shame?"

Zabini makes a strangled noise. "You—you can't—that's—that's not possible—"

"Isn't it?" Harry says flippantly. He smiles into Zabini's face, like they're mates, like Harry's giving him the latest Quidditch scores over chips at the pub. The friendliness makes his tone all the more terrifying. "I defeated a Dark Lord. I came back from the dead. I am probably the greatest wizard of any recorded age. Do you really want to call my bluff?"

Zabini is pale and speechless—two things he's probably never been before. That's satisfactory enough.

He beams at Draco, sliding an arm around his waist to pull him along. "Shall we, darling?"

Draco manages a breathless, "Yes", and lets himself be maneuvered.

Harry glances at Zabini. "Enjoy your evening, Blaise."

Once they've gone a few steps, Draco somehow reverses the hold Harry has on his arm, and is now the one doing the tugging. He drags Harry off into a shadowed back alcove and shoves him against the wall. Draco's mouth is on his before he can get a word out.

"You are magnificent—" Draco pants between kisses, "—absolutely magnificent. Do you have any idea what that does to me?" He grabs Harry's hand and pulls it to his crotch. Draco's cock is beyond hard. "That was the hottest fucking thing I have ever seen," he whines as Harry's fingers curl around the rigid length. "I had no idea a spell like that even _existed_."

Harry captures Draco's lips and kisses him with fierce abandon. He pulls back with a smack of wet lips and grins. "That's because it doesn't."

Draco's eyes grow wide. "You mean—?"

Harry offers a Gallic shrug. "I bluffed. It happens."

Draco's hands curl into the lapels of his suit jacket. "Then what the fuck was that? I could—I could _feel_ that you did something. I didn't imagine that."

"No," Harry chuckles as he shakes his head. "That was a particularly strong anti-wrinkle charm with a touch of an arousal-inhibiting hex." Harry stares straight into Draco's eyes. "The next time he gets an erection, he'll break out in hives. Very unpleasant."

"How do you know he won't test you, though?"

"Simple," Harry says. "Whatever else he is, Blaise Zabini is a coward. He's not going to risk himself any more than he has to. And if it takes him a while to figure it out, fine. He certainly not going to embarrass himself by calling me out on it later. That would mean he would know that I would know that I got to him. He'll never admit that."

Draco cups his cheek and leans in to rest his forehead on Harry's. "That's so Slytherin." He rubs his mouth across Harry's lips. "And still so fucking hot." Draco's breath is warm and moist on Harry's skin, and his body is wound so tight Harry can feel each twitch of muscle of under his hands.

Harry smiles, predatory and sly. "Yeah?"

Draco thrusts his hips forward on a breathy gasp. "Take me home, Harry. _Now._ "

Because there's no arguing with that look in Draco's eyes, Harry tightens his hold, and Apparates.

OOOOO

As soon their feet touch the ground in Harry's chamber, Draco is on him like a Niffler on gold, tugging and pulling, pushing Harry back toward the sofa. He's having a hell of a time attempting to undress himself. He's trying to kick off his shoes, shed his clothes, and kiss Harry all at once. Harry's chuckling against his lips while avoiding getting knocked in the face by the flurry of Draco's limbs. He's all knees and flying elbows, stumbling and hopping, backing Harry across the room. Breathless and desperate, Draco is flailing about, not making any real progress.

He's ungainly and uncoordinated, and Harry thinks he looks rather like a marionette caught in a windstorm. Harry finds it more arousing than it should be, and gives him a reprieve with a wave of his hand. Draco's coat, tie, and shirt come off, and one of his shoes flies across the room to bang into the opposite wall. But now he's naked from the waist up, and Harry latches onto _skin_ , pulling Draco down to straddle him on the sofa.

"Finally," Draco whines, attacking Harry's neck with a series of biting kisses, sucking at him as he grinds their cocks together.

Harry grabs him by the face to still him, and plunders his mouth with wild ferocity. Draco moans above him, and when Harry pulls back to stare into his eyes, Draco leans forward to lord over him like a vulture. Blond hair has become mussed and shaggy, falling over his face, but Harry can see the light of arousal burning bright in their depths. Draco's arms brace themselves on the back of the sofa, on either side of Harry's head, bracketing him in. Harry grabs him by the hips and thrusts up, and Draco's head falls back on an indecent groan, exposing the long, sinuous column of his neck. Harry bites it just to hear him gasp.

"What is it, baby?" Harry asks, easing back to drink in the sight of him. "Tell me what you want, Draco."

That blond head dips again, seductive and sly, and his eyes sparkle like starlight. Draco's tongue makes a slow swipe across his bottom lip, making it glisten a rosy pink in the low light of the room. He whispers, but it sounds like a siren in Harry's brain.

" _Play with me._ "


	26. Chapter 26

It takes Harry's brain a few seconds to process the implication of those three little words, but when it does, Harry grabs Draco by the face and _owns_ him with a kiss. His fingers slide into Draco's hair and _curl_ , nails scratching against his scalp like it's the only place his fingers belong. Draco lets out a sort-of hiss, but the longer Harry holds him, the more the sound turns into a throaty, pleased hum of satisfaction.

He sags against Harry, but his lips move against Harry's at a frenetic pace, as if he's pouring everything he is into the kiss. It's open-mouthed, with too much tongue and never enough heat. It's wet, gorgeous, and filthy-sweet—just the way Harry wants him.

Harry pulls back, panting, and presses his forehead to Draco's in an effort to get his breathing evened out. His chest feels like a bellows, and the rapid rise and fall won't do at all. Draco's set him on fire—it's never been this way with anyone, ever—and Harry needs to get himself under control. Especially if they're going to play like Draco wants.

"Go into the other room," Harry says, once he feels his voice is steady enough. "Wait for me in front of the cabinet."

Draco backs off and pads to the door across the room without question. There wasn't a cabinet in there before, but now that Harry wants one, he knows it'll be there. The Manor has been particularly on point with his wishes thus far.

Harry strips down to his black boxer briefs, taking his time to carefully put his clothes away. These few minutes are for Draco—the waiting, the anticipation.

The obedience.

When Harry walks through the door, he isn't disappointed.

Draco's been on his knees in front of a cabinet like this before, Harry's sure of it, but this time is an entirely different context. His body seems to recognize that, because the slight tremble Harry sees is one of pleasure—not fear.

If there is one thing in this world that Draco Malfoy is absolutely perfect at, it's this: the waiting position. Platinum head hung low, showing off the slope of an elegant neck. Bared in submission. Upturned palms resting on pale thighs that quiver under Harry's gaze. Back curving so beautifully in the sweeping arc of quiet supplication.

Draco is breathtaking.

Mesmerizing.

Alluring.

He has a preternatural draw that calls to parts of Harry on a primal, cellular level. It's more than attraction, more than lust. It is a fundamental biological imperative that Harry cannot ignore. The languid fire flowing through his blood tells him it would be impossible to try. An imperative that has his brain screaming in pointed, strident tones.

_MINE._

_TAKE._

_PLEASURE._

In this light, in this space, Draco is everything Harry has ever hoped for. Everything Harry has dreamed of. It's almost too good to be true, and despite the vehemence of his desire, there is a tiny, niggling part of him that thinks it is.

"Stand up and open the cabinet."

Draco rises, unfurling himself from the floor with the fluidity of water tumbling over stone and does as he is told. He pulls back the carved doors, keeping his eyes downcast.

Harry smirks as the interior lights up, illuminating the trove of objects inside. Yes, the Manor has given him everything and more. Against the back, displayed high at the top, hangs a varied array of floggers, crops, and whips. Below them are two velvet-lined shelves with an assortment of toys, plugs, restraints, and blindfolds. The last shelf is more of a shallow tray, containing a selection of paddles. Leather-wrapped, sueded, some studded, each more decadent and wicked than the last. The gamut of darkness of Harry's desires. The Manor knows him far too well.

"You may look," Harry says.

Draco raises his head and gasps, skin flushing a perfect shade of pink. His erection bobs out in front of him, clearly pleased at what is on display before him. His hands slide behind his back to clasp together, and Harry has to bite his lip to keep from moaning at the sight of him.

"Go on, Draco. Pick your poison."

Draco's throat moves in a nervous swallow as he turns his head to look at Harry.

"Anything, sir?" His voice is measured, low and carefully even.

"Whatever you like, love."

Those soft words of permission have Draco at the cabinet in a flash, his eyes roving over every piece in detail. In the end, he chooses a thin leather crop and a green silk blindfold. Harry stays silent as Draco turns back around and moves forward. He kneels at Harry's feet and bows his head, raising his hands to present the items for inspection.

"With your approval, sir."

Again, his tone is modulated, and the restraint it shows is admirable. He's doing beautifully.

Harry runs his hand through the softness of Draco's hair, relishing the slide through his fingers. He cups Draco's cheek, brushing his thumb across the zygomatic arch before lifting his chin to raise his head.

"Very good, Draco. Lovely. You've chosen well."

The full-on blush that stains his upper body at the praise makes Harry's mouth water. He accepts the proffered items and gestures for Draco to stand. He grips the crop by the handle and points it to the table in the center of the room.

Another item that wasn't there before.

It's not particularly attractive, not like the carved wooden cabinet, but the table is low, cushioned with a thin bit of leather-covered padding. When they used this room before, the rack stood here, but the Manor has seemingly scuttled it away to a magical unknown and left this piece in its wake per Harry's mental request. Given Draco's expression and eagerness, Harry wonders if the Manor read his mind as well.

Bolted to the table in the middle at a slight slant are two rounded, metal handles. Innocent enough, but Harry can already imagine what Draco will look like draped over the top, hands wrapped around those handles, begging for his Master.

Draco walks to the table, stopping short of the edge, waiting for his next instructions. Harry steps up behind him and presses his chest to Draco's back. Draco sucks in a breath as they make contact, and Harry buries his face in the back of Draco's neck, breathing him in. His skin is warm, soft, and fragrant. He smells like lavender and lemon, with a hint of black tea buried beneath. Harry's hips edge closer, pushing his erection into the swell of Draco's naked arse.

"Do you have any idea how much I want you?" he whispers, brushing his lips against the fine, blond hairs at Draco's nape. He bites a soft kiss there and rolls his hips, wanting to feel the give of Draco's flesh to his cock. "How hard you make me?" He licks behind Draco's ear. Draco's response is a shiver and a tiny, muffled squeak. He's biting his lip to keep silent. "Every time I look at you, I want you. I want you any way I can have you. I can hardly breathe for it sometimes, can't even think because all my mind and my body know is _you_." He punctuates the last word with a hard grind. Draco's hands shoot out to rest on the edge of the table for support, and he whimpers. "All I can think about is getting my hands on you and fucking you until neither of us can see straight." There's a gasp that sounds suspiciously like a _yes_. He sucks on Draco's earlobe. "I'm going to give you everything you want. Everything you need. Are you ready for that?"

"Yes, sir!"

The half-barked croak makes Harry chuckle. He pulls back and settles the blindfold over Draco's eyes. After it's in place, he runs his hands along the length of Draco's torso, feeling him tremble and quake at Harry's touch. They stop at Draco's hips, and Harry pushes forward, urging him to meet the edge of the table.

"Lean forward," he says, running a hand up Draco's spine to ease him down. "Slowly. Now stretch your arms out—good, like that. Lie flat for me, darling." Draco's pressed chest down against the padding, and the length of his spine is elongated in front of Harry. "The handles are right there. Reach out and grab them."

He has to stretch a bit more, and raises on his toes before his hands curl around the metal. The angle has his hips and his arse lifted high, concaving his back into a slight dip at the reach. The creamy expanse of skin that is on display is gorgeous to behold.

"Beautiful," Harry purrs, trailing a reverent finger down the middle of his back. "Just beautiful."

Draco laid out before him like this demands touch, and so touch Harry does. He leans up and over, crushing into Draco's arse, peppering his spine and back with bites, nibbles, licks, and kisses. Draco's skin is salty-sweet, and Harry mouths at him with relish, savoring each taste as if it is last.

Draco is pliant beneath him, relaxed in only half the amount of time Harry thought it would take. Before he can relax any more, Harry eases off and smacks the crop hard against the luscious swell of Draco's arse. The crack of the blow echoes through the room, and Draco tenses and hisses at the strike.

The blond head cranes around slowly. Silk-covered eyes turn Harry's way, and open-mouthed, Draco pants, "Shall I count, sir?"

It's like someone has opened the floodgates on Harry's joy, and he has to press a hand to his throbbing cock to keep it from going off right there. Harry steels himself and leans over to lick a stripe up Draco's jaw.

"No," he murmurs. "Counting is for discipline. This, Draco—this is for pleasure."

He swings again, several times in succession, all across the tight curves of Draco's arse. Draco moans, burying his head in his bicep, panting out his pleasure. Harry pauses at intervals to run his hands over the reddened, hot flesh, kneading and caressing, letting his fingers soothe Draco into a contented hum. He follows up with flat smacks to Draco's flanks, then moving to let the end of the crop tease up Draco's trembling thighs. He nudges at the low, swollen hang of his balls, bringing the shaft under to press into the hollow of where they meet Draco's cock.

Draco jerks at that, seeking any kind of touch to his erection, anything that might provide that extra ounce of pleasure, that promise of relief. Harry whips at the backs of his thighs, then crouches to mitigate the sting with his tongue, darting over the raised lines with relish. He bites and licks at the rounded muscle of Draco's arse, moving swiftly. He doesn't linger, alternating at random to keep Draco on the edge for as long as possible.

His beautiful boy is a mess underneath his crop and his tongue, mewling and writhing with sinuous grace. This time, Harry takes the flat of the crop and swats at his balls lightly before swiping up over the crack of his arse. The breath that Draco sucks in is sharp and fierce, and Harry has no choice but to respond.

He stands up and grasps the crop just underneath the handle, trailing it over the welted curves. It begins to dip inward, closer to where Harry wants to bury his cock. He's a breath away from the dusky, furled hole when Draco freezes.

" _Yellow."_

Harry stops.

There's no other sound than that of their ragged breathing.

"Draco?"

An audible swallow.

"Communicate, Draco."

Harry's eyes shoot to Draco's face. His head is turned to the side so he can breathe through his mouth. The green silk is still in place, and his hands are white-knuckled on the handles. There is a visible tremble to his grasp.

"Not there," Draco whispers. "Not—just you, or proper toys. Not _that_."

He has to press, not because he's cruel, but because he has to be clear. Harry taps the handle over Draco's hole. "Is this a soft limit, or hard?"

No response.

Harry doesn't move, keeping the handle very still. "Do you know what that means?"

Draco nods. "Yes," he gasps. "Hard. Hard limit, sir."

Harry's hand falls away instantly. "Acknowledged. Do you want to go on?"

The body beneath him relaxes. "Yes, sir."

"Color?"

Draco's tongue is moist and pink as it swipes over his bottom lip. Harry wants to suck it right out of his mouth.

"Green."

"Very well," Harry says, bending down to press a kiss to the dip at the end of Draco's spine. "Let's continue."

From then on, it's a series of whips and bites, of pressing fingers and sucking kisses. It's a fury of pleasure and pain spiked with the worship of the prostrate body before him. He welts and licks every inch of Draco's porcelain skin until he's pink and red and striped, mottled with the reverence of Harry's mouth on his flesh, his lips on his skin, his tongue in his arse. And through it all Draco is open and naked, bared to Harry and possibly himself in ways that can only exist between one soul in two bodies.

Harry's cock throbs painfully with the need to be inside him, but he can't give this up just yet, not while Draco is taking everything he has to give with such unadulterated _perfection_. He's never had a sub receive like this, never had one who has so much to let go, and been so willing to let it happen. It's a tipping point on the scales, and Harry's brain can't comprehend the magnitude of what is happening. Because Draco is so good for him, so blessedly _right_ , so fucking gorgeous, it can't possibly be real.

At that, something in his mind throws a switch, and suddenly he's seeing everything through a cloud. It's an angry red haze, a filter that shouts, a voices that whispers, and Harry feels the long-buried insecurities start to rise. With each lash of the crop, each exultant cry that escapes Draco's mouth, Harry feels the confusion set in. The pleasure that courses through him twists into an ugly, gnarled beast, sneering at him in disgust.

_What kind of man takes pleasure in this?_

It's hundreds of condescending voices, some familiar, some not. It's the judgment he knows and the repudiation he can't escape.

He looks down at Draco, whimpering and writhing, humping against the table's edge. He sees only beauty, only freedom. Surrender in abandon. Things he knows he doesn't deserve. Fashioned by prophecy, there is blood on his hands, and pain is the only gift he has to give. Tears leak into the corner of his eyes, and he blinks them back, never halting the cadence of the crop. It whistles through the air, smacking against flesh that gives and _gives_ and keeps on giving, because he knows Draco will give him _everything_ if he demands it from him.

And this is what Harry gives in return.

Pain.

Loss.

Death.

Because that's what he is. A freak, an anomaly. Something that doesn't exist in the wholesome. Something dirty that feeds in the perverse dark.

He can't feel his arm. All he can do is watch as it descends over and over and over again, wrenching lustful sobs from Draco's lungs. But it sounds like angel song. Joyous and rhythmic, with all the glory of the divine. That's what he hears, but Harry knows it's not real. It's not for him. Because how can a man drenched in so much blood ever be clean? How can a man who delights in the submission of others ever be worthy of it? How can this ever be normal?

Somewhere in the dark of his mind he hears another voice, faint at first, and then loud as thunder.

_"PARACHUTE!"_

Harry's vision goes white.

Then nothing.


End file.
